Bound Together - The 165th Hunger Games
by TheLoungeRoom
Summary: Snatched without warning, twenty-four teenagers wake in an unfamiliar place. The routine of the annual reaping has been voided; and the randomized tributes find themselves waking in the arena with little idea of where they are. But as the stolen uncover the secrets of the arena, they begin to learn more about themselves. And how maybe, their selection was not so random after all.
1. Day One: Photographs - Part 1

Day One - Photographs

 **Tracey Smith - District Six**

As a young child, did you ever drift off to sleep while lounging on the living room couch, only to find yourself waking in your bed the following morning? The mystery of the situation probably felt quite magical back then; to fall asleep in one place and to wake in another with little to no explanation. But as an adult, especially for one who lives alone, this experience is far more terrifying than wondrous. Especially if the room you wake up in is not one you recognize.

Waking up in unfamiliar places was not uncommon for Tracey Smith, whether it be in the gutter of an unknown street or the bed of a man she couldn't remember. The occurrence was a frequency in the eighteen year olds life, for most nights she blacked out with a bottle in hand in a grungy bar unbeknown to most in her district, and despite how common the situation was, it never failed to scare her.

Bright and burning lights shone from every which direction as the brunette cracked open an eye, half-expecting to find herself lounging on the wooden bench in a cell of her district prison. While she hadn't awoken to that situation in months, it was still a possibility she anticipated each morning.

Forcing herself into a sitting position with the hope of finding a way, or somebody else to, shut off the blistering white light that antagonizes her daily hangover, she found that the boxy room she had awoken in was quite unlike any she had seen before.

Through both a raging headache and mind numbing grogginess, the teenager made a feeble attempt to stand and inspect her surroundings, only succeeding in a one-legged kneel. The small, cube-like room lacked any trace of furniture. A vaguely familiar pedestal supported her weight in the centre of the room, which also happened to be the only occupant on the pristine white tiles.

Weariness begins to fade as perplexity and fear fight for control. Rubbing at her drooping eyes, Tracey is able to make out the shape of a hideous looking and wildly out of place hatch jutting from the white wall that looms over both she and the plate. A horror-movie like rust taints the steel, only supporting her unease.

Now aided by a rush of adrenaline, Tracey is able to shakily climb to her feet, wincing at the pain pounding inside of her skull. Reaching for her pocket, she swore upon finding her bottle of pills were not with her. The tablets really were a life-saver; curing her hangover in a matter of seconds and allowing her to proceed with her day of misery and loneliness. Twisting on the spot, Tracey found three identical hatches planted on the remaining walls. No doors or windows, just ugly, little hatches.

"Maybe I should lighten up on the grog." The teenager giggled nervously at her lame attempt at humour, a weak stab at lightening the mood. A heavy fog lingered over her mind, preventing her from recalling how she had ended up in the unfamiliar room. The last thing she could remember was sitting at her dining room table, holding a smoke in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She recalled a woman sitting on the opposite side, dressed in neat clothing that stood out in her dirty home. She couldn't remember the woman's face.

Her eyes suddenly lock onto what appears to be a photograph taped to the left wall; an addition she swore had not been there a moment ago. Stepping from the plate, Tracey stumbled across the impossibly clean floor towards the photograph, tearing the picture from the wall in a manner that was anything but elegant.

Squinting slightly, a few moments passed before her vision cleared enough for the teenager to make out the figure captured. The photograph was of a slender looking girl, age and size not-unlike Tracey. She had a head of gleaming white hair, and was dressed in a boxing outfit save for a right glove. Instead, her right hand clasped a glass of water that was pressed to her lips, and her forehead glistened with sweat. The girl stood at a distance from the photographer, and the lower half of the picture was obscured by a dark object. It was almost as if the girl had no idea she was being photographed.

Tracey pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes as another rolling wave of pain crashed over her. She allows the picture to fall from her hand as she stumbled back towards the plate, sucking in slow and deep breaths and willing the pain away.

As the pain began to subside, Tracey opened her eyes to a sight that almost drew a scream. The four barren walls that encased her room were now completely covered in photographs. Hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Each one depicted a young man or woman, and in most cases, it appeared the subject was unaware of the photographer and stood at a sizeable distance. Her eyes are drawn to one in particular, a picture of a boy with shaggy black hair sprawled across a messy bed, fast asleep with his cheek smooshed against a pillow that lacked a casing. The picture was slightly blurred, and it took Tracey a fleeting moment to realize that was because it had been taken through a window.

Who took these photos? Where had they come from? Why was she here?

But the terror eighteen-year old Tracey Smith felt at that moment was nothing compared to the next, as her eyes drift to the picture taped beside it. This photo was of a girl, one laying in the middle of a sidewalk with an empty bottle in hand and drool seeping from her mouth. The photo was of her.

"What the fuck is this?" she screamed. With the pain of her headache now irrelevant, she peered up at the ceiling as if expecting to find a camera staring back at her. Instead, she finds another rusted hatch jutting from the roof, "Fuck!"

Tracey moved towards the nearest hatch on quivering legs, hands gripping the rusted metal wheel and twisting with all her strength in the hope of finding freedom and familiarity on the other side. But the wheel refuses to budge, and after two minutes of frantic tugging and incoherent screaming, she finally backed off.

"What the fuck do you want from me!" She screamed, hoping that whoever was watching couldn't see the tears snaking down her face. She twisted around on the spot with her arms outspread, as if inviting her captor to attack, "Huh? If you're going to do something, then do it!"

Whether it was by coincidence, or if somebody was actually paying attention, the hatch wheel on the other side of the room began to spin on it's own, eventually stopping with a click and swinging backwards. Tracey's face grew hard as a debate raged behind her eyes. Should she venture forth and investigate the room beyond, or stay put and wait for rescue? Moving forwards meant following her captors wishes, which may in turn lead to her doom. On the other hand, staying put may anger whoever it was who placed her in the room, and that could lead to punishment. And what help would come? There was nobody outside to miss Tracey if she disappeared. Nobody would even notice, save for the bartender at The Carlton who always greeted her with a smile.

She took a tentative step forwards, followed by another and another, each one steadier than the last as she moved towards the open hatch. Taking in a deep breath and wincing as another blow of pain stabbed at her brain, Tracey peered through the hole. What she saw made her heart thunder even faster, if that were possible. Her knees almost buckled, her arm scraping against the rusted metal as she grabbed onto the framework to steady herself. The room beyond was gigantic, like the room she stood in now on a much larger scale. In the centre sat an enormous metal horn, with various weapons, backpacks, and other survival equipment spilling from the mouth. Now she realized why the plate had appeared so familiar. Tracey Smith was in the Hunger Games.

 **Kelani Richards - District Ten**

Kelani's feet remained rooted to the plate as the collage of creepy photographs that coated the walls began to fall. It was slow at first, with one picture drifting gently to the floor after another, floating back and forth on a non-existent breeze. But that calm and almost hypnotic movement of three or four photographs fluttering to the floor soon turned to a tsunami of paper rolling in from all directions, hundreds of pictures crashing to the floor and rolling in waves around the platform she stood upon. She waited for the room to fall still once again before moving, taking a tentative step from her plate and into the sea of paper below. Her foot sunk to the ankle, and she fought the urge to retract it right away.

Her eyes flickered from photo to photo, until they were captured by one lingering on the surface of the thick pile, a picture that clearly depicted Kelani herself. The picture was taken from below; Kelani stood on a high branch with an arm wrapped around the trunk of a tree, her wind blowing wildly in the breeze as she watched the sun set over the horizon. The tree was a fixture on the edge of the Graves property, sprouting in a field that had gone unused for years. She had thought she was alone at the time. She could hear nothing from beyond the hatch that sits open before her, and could see nothing but a gleaming white light seeping in from the other side.

The seventeen-year old could not recall how she had ended up in that room; the last thing she could remember was shoving through the school doors on the last day of term. The memory was vivid, she could even remember the rush of excitement that coursed through her veins as she proudly strode down the stairs. She cared not if any teacher caught her leaving early, it was the last day of school, after all. What could they do?

Her current stature was vastly different to what it had been upon leaving school that day. With her arms folded across her chest and her entire body quivering, she pushed forwards towards the hatch and peered through it. What she saw on the other side flushed the fear from her system.

Sitting before her very eyes was the cornucopia, an iconic fixture that she never thought she would sight in person. Kelani Richards had always been an adrenaline junkie, always searching for more excitement and dangerous acts to partake in. The Hunger Games had always been a dream of hers: The Ultimate Rush. But her father had always forbidden her from volunteering, and she never dared cross her father.

"No way," She breathed as she stuck her head through the hole, expecting to see a vicious brawl already underway as tributes began to slaughter each other and splatter the pristine white tiles with dark blood.

But, to her surprise, the room was completely deserted. Instead, numerous faces peered from identical hatches implanted across the four walls, each looking more confused by the last. Did none of them know they were entering the arena?

Time began to slow as she eyed the various teenagers. A terrified boy with a misshapen nose. A girl dressed in an elegant white dress who appeared nonplussed by the current situation. Only when a girl with gleaming white hair stepped through her own hatch and into the larger room, standing proud and tall, did time return to normal.

She brushed a strand of white hair from her face, and began her walk towards the cornucopia. The movement was awkward and almost comical, her shuffle increased and decreased in speed as if she were not sure if she should run or not. It suddenly dawned on Kelani that there may not be much time before somebody with a larger thirst for blood joined her. Her mouth stretched into an abnormal and frankly disturbing grin, as she pushed herself through the hatch. The moment her feet hit the floor on the other side, Kelani Richards ran.

 **Ethan Marks - District Eleven**

The third person to emerge from his claustrophobic box was a young man with dirty blonde hair and a solemn face, a boy who showed no outward fear towards the situation he had been thrown into. Like Kelani, Ethan Marks was running the moment his feet touched the ground. While graceful, the movement was also desperate, quite unlike the ecstatic and wild Kelani.

The girl with staggeringly bright, white hair followed his lead, breaking out into a desperate run of her own that only increased in ferocity as she was overtaken by the girl dressed in blue, her berserk grin almost throwing Ethan for a moment. Determined to uphold his selfmade reputation by not being outdone by two _girls,_ Ethan's long legs began to pump even faster.

Instinct launches control as the boy surpasses the grinning girl and leaps into the horn. The interior walls were lined with large, metal crates that supported deadly looking objects or have sharp weapons extending from within. Ethan moved towards a dark blue pillar that stretched from floor to ceiling, supporting a ladder that reached an opening in the roof, allowing for a smooth exit.

Even if he were to die in this game he had not signed up for, it would be absolutely mortifying to be the first to lose their life in the arena. His entire district would be utterly crushed, and Ethan Marks did not intend to disappoint all those who admired him, and also knew that the possibility of him being taken down so soon was slimmer than the blade of a knife.

In a single movement, one of his hands snagged the strap of a large, blue pack that sat atop a low box, the other wrapping around the handle of a hunting knife. The weapon felt foreign and awkward in his hand; he almost could not picture himself jamming it into the body of another person. Almost. While the concept of breaking the current kill record, a record of fifteen set by Pelia Marsh nine years prior, was appealing, he decided he would rather not be branded an insane psychopath by all who knew him. No, of all the things Ethan Marks excelled at, killing would not be one of them. Surviving on the other hand. . .

Hauling the bag over his shoulders, Ethan lunged for the cold metal rungs of the ladder and pulls himself towards the ceiling, his muscular legs a blur as he clambered from rung to rung, free hand extending towards and grabbing ahold of the edge of the opening above him.

Placing the handle of the knife between his teeth, Ethan grasped the edge with both hands and carefully pulling himself upwards, legs kicking away from the ladder in an arrogant display of strength. Too arrogant.

He does not even lift himself halfway before a firm hand wraps itself around his left ankle. Panic flooded his chest, and in an erratic attempt of freeing himself, he kicked his free foot backwards. It collided with his attacker, whose grip on his ankle failed to falter. With a single tug, Ethan lost his grip on the opening and plummeted back to Earth.

He hit the ground hard, elbow cracking against the metal floor painfully and shoulder blades digging into something sharp. Standing over him, with a hand pressed against her right eye, was the girl with white hair. She was grimacing in pain, Ethan supposed he had kicked her in the face. The girl held no weapon, and with an uncomfortable start, Ethan realized that he had lost his own item of defense in the fall. Growling with pain, the teenager climbed to his feet while holding the ladder to steady himself, unable to locate the hunting knife which had vanished into thin air. His attacker let out a growl of her own, hand dropping from her face and forming a fist at her side as she bared a set of pearly white teeth at her opponent.

Ethan made the first move, closing the small distance between the two in an attempt to surprise her with an uppercut to the jaw. Apparently, his first ever fight was doomed to be a failure, as the girl pulled her arm backwards and threw it into his oncoming face with alarming precision.

Up until this very moment, Ethan had never been punched. Why would he wish to tarnish his perfect body with scars and bruises? The fear of being trapped in an arena fall of murderers alongside the confusion of his placement alongside them crashed into the boy alongside the girls fist, as if the punch was what made Ethan realize he was not as invincible as he liked to believe. The sudden realization that death lay at an arm's length allowed his previous calm and cool expression to crack, giving way to a demeanor of panic and dread.

Ethan stumbled away from the girl with his hand pressed to his upper lip, already throbbing elbow bumping the unstable ladder, which fell from the blue beam and crashed into the side of the cornucopia. The back of his foot stubbed an unseen object, sending him crashing into the now ladder-less pillar.

The boy steadied himself with a grunt of pain as the girl smoothly pulled a gleaming silver sword, one Ethan had only ever seen on a television screen, from a rack that was nailed to the wall. His eyes flicked past the girl, momentarily greeting the chocolate irises of the girl with the psychotic grin from outside. She now stood at the mouth of the cornucopia with a rucksack slung over her shoulder and a curved sword held in her left hand. Her grin fell to a pitying frown, but made no move to help the struggling Ethan. Instead, she turned and made her escape from the deadly horn. The girl with white hair appeared mesmerized by the sword, running the gleaming metal across her hand with her mouth agape. Ethan attempted to use the momentary distraction to find a weapon of his own, only coming up with a single throwing star.

Without a second thought, Ethan pulled back his arm and flung the deadly star, face falling as it veered to the side and embedded itself in the fabric of an untouched bag. He had been so sure it would work; things such as that usually came naturally to Ethan. The feeling of failure was almost as crushing as the realization that he may die at the hands of a girl with stark white hair. Her trance was broken by his reckless action, and with a smile she took a step in his direction, only realizing at the last second that she was now too close to effectively use the weapon.

Leaning backwards so that his butt was sitting atop a black box as she faltered, Ethan kicked his leg upwards. This time, it connected with her flimsy looking wrist with a sickening crack. The girl roared in pain and dropped the weapon, the sword clattering loudly against the metal floor. Knowing this may be his only chance, Ethan pushed himself away from both the box and the pillar and charged forwards. Bending down, he scooped up the sword and shouldered the girl in the chest on his way back up, the pain in both his elbow and lip numbed by copious amounts of adrenaline. The girl crashed into an unstable pile of little black boxes that toppled upon impact, allowing Ethan to make a daring escape.

He passed two or three of the more determined tributes searching for supplies as he sprinted from the mouth, tearing across the floor towards the hatch he had entered through. He managed to make it halfway before something shot past his head. The poorly thrown knife bounced off the floor to his left, Ethan only caught a glimpse of the weapon before he was already passed it.

Risking a look backwards, he could see the girl with hair whiter than snow pull back her arm with another sharp object in hand. The previous atrocious throw granted Ethan a needed boost of confidence, one so strong that the boy found himself flashing a grin and winking at the fuming girl before setting his sight back on the hatch ahead.

If he had thought being on the receiving end of a punch was painful, he was not at all prepared for the explosion of pain as the tip of a lethal knife tore through the fabric of his cargo shorts and burrowed into the flesh of his left thigh. A mixture of a scream and a roar erupted from the boy's mouth as the leg gives away, blood squirting around the girth of the knife. His chest heaved and his eyes watered as he fought the urge to vomit. Looking back over his shoulder with strangled gasps, the girls malicious grin only added to the already unbearable pain of the blade that had carved its way into his body.

Fortunately for Ethan, and unfortunately for the girl who had crippled him, her inhumane joy of taking down her opponent was short lived. The form of a tiny, malnourished boy with a tangled mop of hair atop his head edged his way along the very edge of the top of the cornacopia, ever so slightly licking his lips at the girl below. Dropping to his hands, the boy pushed from the roof in a powerful bound and landed right on the back of his prey. Using a set of sharp and jagged teeth, Ethan quickly turned away as it tore into the flesh of her shoulder, although her agonized scream was enough to make Ethan vomit. A pool of translucent and watery liquid poured from Ethan's mouth and onto the floor before him.

Gagging, and making garbled sounds, Ethan began crawling away from the screaming girl and the animalistic boy. With a heavy backpack on his shoulders and sword clacking against the tile with each movement forwards, Ethan knew that dragging his injured body away would be a slow and agonizing task. He can only hope that the other tributes would be too preoccupied to notice him, as he smeared crimson blood across the white tiles. He could give up here, and await a death that would be far quicker than any later in the game. However, he was not a quitter. Ethan Marks was a winner, and win is what he would do.

 **Willow Drake - District One**

The pain was horrendous. The usually strong, ferocious, and composed Willow Drake let out what she liked to think was a mighty roar as teeth sharper than needles tore into the flesh of her exposed shoulder. The boy that clung to her back snarled in a fashion similar to that of a rabid dog. Turning her head ever so slightly, Willow gagged at the sight of the blood dribbling down the boy's chin as he gnawed on the flesh that had been attached to her body only a second before. Her uninjured arm reaches back, hand threading through and tugging at the wild mop of hair atop the boys head. The pain only appeared to egg the boy on as he proceeded to rake his sharp nails across the skin of her hip.

Unable to shake him, Willow throws herself backwards as a last resort. Running a few steps backwards, the girl slammed the boy of her back against the side of the metallic cornucopia with all her might, a sudden spike of excitement rushing around her body as the smaller teenager was crushed between she and the horn.

The boy let out a gargle, and slumped to the tiled floor when Willow stepped away. The bloody, pussy chunk of flesh he had been chewing on fell from his mouth, slapping into the floor sloppily and oozing crimson onto the white tile. Willow shuddered, and managed to avert her gaze from the grotesque chunk. Without a weapon to aid her, she feared that her lack of experience would hinder her ability to fight against the savage. So instead, she took off in the direction of the boy she had wounded, who was now moaning in pain and dragging his injured body in the direction of one of the open hatches.

The searing pain of her torn flesh slowed her from a sprint, and the persistent throbbing of her dominant wrist only worsened matters. The sound of ragged and strangled breaths burst to life from somewhere behind, growing both louder and closer with each passing second. For a passing moment, Willow felt a waft of hot air blasting across the nape of her neck, the breath of a rabid child closing in on his prey. But something must have felled the boy, for his head spontaneously slammed between her shoulder blades. Willow screamed, a feminine noise she prayed nobody else heard, and scrunched her stormy-grey eyes closed as the floor rushed up to meet her. But the impact never came.

A free feeling, much unlike anything she had ever felt before, unfurled from within her body as Willow's eyes shot open to find the ground inches below her. Her entire body tilted forwards at a slow rate as she floated mid air. With body spinning her upside down, she could see the form of the boy who had torn at her skin spinning out of control off to her left. His rabid and mangled snarls had turned to panicked whimpers, not unlike a recently kicked puppy. Where did they find this kid?

Unable to cease the spinning, Willow could do nothing but watch as the cornucopia fell into her line of sight. The metallic boxes inside remained rooted to the floor, whereas weapons, backpacks, and various other supplies drift as aimlessly as she through the air, some occasionally bumping gently against the walls, others rising through the hole in the roof of the horn. She had been so focused on killing the boy with blonde hair, and trying to avoid being killed by the boy with a tangled mop, that she had not noticed the lack of other tributes around the cornucopia. Other than herself and the rabid boy, a girl dressed in flowing white fought to keep the hem of her dress from floating above her head, Willow noted how she had maintained an angelic appearance despite the chaotic circumstance. Another boy wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses was frantically clawing at the open air. Beneath him was a boy wielding a spear, the weapon-head poised directly at the teenager above him. Rounding up the group was a girl with beautiful blonde hair and porcelain skin, who had managed to find a method of maneuvering efficiently across the room despite the lack of gravity. She pushed herself forwards with powerful breast strokes, swimming through the air as if it were no different from water. She appeared the type that Willow detested. Perfect, pretty, and pompous.

Willow was yet to come close to a large body of water in her life; the closest was the bathtub back home. Her father always forbade her from visiting the local swimming pool, a luxury she had longed to experience for many years. Her attempt to pull the same tactic as the beautiful blonde was far less elegant, only succeeding in spinning herself out of control. Bile rose in her throat, and thankfully gravity returned before she could eject what little food sat in her stomach. When was the last time she had eaten? Her body fell like an anchor, plummeting downwards and creating a dropping feeling in her chest. Thankfully, she landed on her feet in a crouch rather than head first. She was grateful that she had not been higher. The girl dressed in white appeared to have landed gracefully, already on her feet with her arms outstretched as if she had floated down instead of falling. The rabid boy was also on the move, scampering to and disappearing through the mouth of the cornucopia. The beautiful blonde had presumably landed safely as well, though she was obscured from Willow by the enormous horn. Unfortunately, not everybody was as lucky as they, and Willow felt that bile returning as she watched the boy with glasses plummet.

The boy with the spear had landed on his back, with the deadly weapon raised just above his stomach, tip angled at the ceiling. The most grotesque squelching sound to ever reach Willow's ears spilled from the body of the falling boy, the sound reverberating around the room as he landed directly on the spearhead. The weapon burrowed through his back as if it were softer than tissue, and moments later erupted through the other side in a shower of crimson, insignificant droplets of blood raining down upon both his attacker and the floor around them. The boy underneath appeared oblivious to what he had done; his face twisted and contorted in pain. When the boy had fallen, the handle had jabbed him in the stomach. Hard. His grip on the handle loosened, and under the weight of the limp body impaled upon it, the weapon toppled to the side. The boys head smashed into the tile with a sickening crunch, and the sight of a pink, quivering chunk of organ on the very tip of the spearhead caused Willow to spew a fountain of translucent liquid across the floor. The brief excitement Willow had experienced upon inflicting pain upon the boy with sandy blonde hair had evaporated, now replaced with a burning pain in her shoulder, a stabbing sensation in her stomach, and an overwhelming feeling of terror. Falling to her hands and knees, Willow released another pool of liquid over both herself and the floor. Once recovered, Willow began to crawl away from the boy with glasses, with no weapon or supplies on hand. She crawled away from danger. Away from the bloodshed. Away from the gaunt, dead face that would haunt Willow Drake for the remainder of her days.

 **Aldon Crowell - District Five**

The sudden and gory death of Varick Lamarre had widespread effects throughout the entire nation. Many viewers, particularly those of wealthier descent, cheered as that spear tore through Varick's small body. Others turned away with either disgust or horror, with a small number emptying their stomachs much like Willow had over their carpets. District One was in an uproar, with several riots breaking out in the hours following Varick's gruesome demise. While some were devastated by the boy's life being snatched so soon, others were furious that young Varick had taken the position of a worthier candidate, and as night fell across the district, Petunia Lamarre was found dead in her home, brains splattered across the wall and a note detailing the woman's grief and guilt over what had happened to her son in her hand.

In the arena, time appeared to slow in the moments following Varick's death. The few who had witnessed the gore appeared to deflate, overcome with both horror and fear that sent them fleeing back towards the hatches. Even the young boy known only as Wolf could sense the dark undertones that had encompassed the arena as Varick Lamarre's life slipped away. Only the girl dressed in an elegant white dress remained unphased, simply proceeding with her collection of supplies as if nothing had happened.

All of this was unknown to Aldon Crowell, who spent a few short minutes following the death of Varick curled up in a ball with his eyes clamped shut. The pain in his stomach was excruciating, it felt as if he had been impaled by the spear-butt that had rammed his stomach. Only when his heaves began to lessen, and the few tears leaking from his eyes began to slow, did Aldon open his eyes and discover what he had done.

Varick's body lay close to Aldon, so near that he could have reached out and brushed the boys cheek. His lifeless eyes stared back at Aldon through the shattered lens of his glasses, mouth twisted open in a silent scream. Aldon wanted to scream himself, but instead sat up and scrambled away for he could not find his voice. Spots of blood peppered both Aldon and the foor surrounding him, coating and creating patterns on the surfaces on objects that had fallen nearby the moment gravity had shifted. Across the room was a much thicker smear of blood, and a number of pools of vomit were scattered here and there. But none of it compared to the grotesque sight of the boy Aldon had murdered; the tip of his spear had skewered chunks of organ, and the expanding puddle of blood extending from the boy's corpse showed no signs of slowing.

Aldon couldn't shift his gaze. He felt paralysed by the boy's lifeless gaze. He could picture his father's face, how it would have brightened the moment the boy fell onto Aldon's spear. How he would jump to his feet and shout 'That's my boy!' to his small crowd of drinking buddies who gathered each year to watch the games. He could imagine the man's reaction upon Aldon's return home, how he would pull his son into an uncharacteristic hug and clap him on the back, congratulating his little killer and informing anybody who would listen of how proud he was. Aldon had wanted his vile father to be proud of his son for his entire life; his entire personality was manufactured around the man who showed nothing but disappointment in his child. But this. . .this would make Diego Crowell proud, and suddenly his pride was no longer important. Insignificant in comparison to what Aldon had done. _Murderer._

He would be too excited to notice Aldon cowering away from what he had done. A small part of Aldon wished he could stand and sneer down at the body with the disgust that was expected of him. He wished he could be one of those killers who felt nothing. It would make the games that much easier.

But Aldon was not that person. He was sensitive. His father may have beaten and broken every kind bone in his child's body, but he could never diminish Aldon's softer side. The softer side that kept his father's pride at bay. Until now.

Instead of doing what his father would have wanted, Aldon climbed to his feet with a prominent tremble, groaning and gasping at the sharp pain in his stomach. Nothing he wasn't used to. Just another bruise to add to the collection.

Aldon looked down at Varick Lamarre with sorrow and guilt. He had always thought he would relish in chaos and violence of the games, as his father had when he was younger. One of the most dangerous and cold victors in history, The Shark, they had called him, for he had never stopped moving upon setting foot in the arena. He never slowed until all of his opponents lay bleeding on the floor. Aldon did not feel the euphoria his father had exuded upon taking a life. Aldon did not want to bask in the glory of shedding blood. All he wanted to do was run away and hide.

Aldon turned from the body and moved towards the cornucopia in an almost robotic fashion, eyes unblinking as he stopped to pick up two heavy backpacks in one hand and an unused spear in the other. A spear that had not taken the life of another.

As Aldon moved away from the horn with a bag slung over each shoulder and a deadly spear in hand, he knew that there was no going back. No matter how hard he could try to change. Now that he was a killer, he would never be anything else.

 **Authors Note**

There are a couple of things to note about this story before proceeding any further.

First of all, this world is slightly AU. The situation in the districts is a little different, with conditions and rules being slightly more lenient and true to poorer classes of the modern day. The capitol is as futuristic as it has always been, but this technology doesn't extend far out into the districts. They still use many modern day utilities, and while uncommon, cars still exist in this universe.

Secondly is the pacing. Due to the lack of reapings, chariot rides, training sessions and interviews, the games themselves will take quite a bit longer as characters, relationships, and arcs are established. I hope that this doesn't leave things feeling overwhelming.

Finally, is the characters themselves. I find that many characters in these stories are quite unrealistic. And while I do need to have a small number of psychotic characters to keep things interesting, I hope that many of these people feel far more grounded and realistic than in other stories.

Feedback is greatly appreciated. Reviews, feedback, and theories on what you believe will take place next keeps me interested in the story itself. I hope you enjoy the ride that is _Bound Together_. 


	2. Day One: Photographs - Part 2

**Darcy Retorre - District Nine**

For those who cowered and crouched inside of their rooms throughout the duration of the bloodbath, oblivious to the unfortunate and bloody death of Varick Lamare, time seemed to pass at a supernaturally tedious rate. Some watched with crippling fear from the small opening that granted little freedom, unsure of what to do with themselves or why they had been placed into the death trap that is the arena. But for those like Darcy Retorre, those who were controlled by severe and spontaneous attacks of anxiety, those few minutes of confinement felt like hours of pure torture.

"Not again," The whisper was small and broken. Trembling hands fell from the hatch he had been frantically tugging on, palms now slashed and bleeding. Crystal tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, which darted in every which direction as if expecting to find an attacker crouched in the corner. He couldn't understand why this had happened. He couldn't have been taken again. He had been so careful.

"Mum," He sobbed, unable to form a coherent thought as his back pressed into the chilled wall behind him, chest heaving and knees threatening to buckle. Darcy felt as if he had a million eyes on him, watching from an unforeseen crevice, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

Unlike the other children who had been snatched from their homes and families and thrust into the arena against their will, Darcy was yet to peer through the hatch that had swung open minutes earlier. Instead, he had backed away and flung himself at a different metal door, an attempt at freedom doomed from the start.

His back slid down the wall and an agonizingly slow rate, until his butt was finally cushioned by the mountain of photographs that blanketed the floor. Darcy pulled his knees to his chest and hummed a weak tune, rocking back and forth with the hope that somebody would come to his rescue, an occurrence he knew was unlikely to happen twice.

His eyes continued their assault on the room, looking everywhere at once with the hope of sighting danger before it struck, which was why he so easily spotted the slight movement in the handle of the hatch on the left side of the room. Both his crying and heaving stopped as his body froze, eyes locked onto the hatch in horror as the wheel began to turn.

His eyes never strayed from attempting to look everywhere at once, which is why he so easily saw the slightest movement in the handle of the hatch on the left side of the room. His bodily instantly froze, watching the hatch in pure terror as the handle turns at an agonizingly slow rate.

Surprisingly, the boy stood, photos sliding around and falling at his feet. Darcy Retorre has been through this once before; he doesn't want to relive that experience. All he wants is to go home. Moving only by tip-toe, Darcy creeps over towards the hatch, standing right beside it with his back pressed up against the wall, breath held and trembles only washing over his body every few seconds rather than a constant quiver.

Finally, a soft click emits from the rusted handle of the hatch and the doorway begins to swing open. Darcy's body tenses as a head pushes itself through the hole, that of a girl who is looking directly down at the floor covered in pictures, oblivious to the boy watching over her.

Wanting to make a move on her before she notices his presence, the boy reaches out and grabs a fistfull of blonde hair that contains streaks of blue, using all of his strength to pull the girl through the open hatch and onto the floor, subconsciously blocking out the screams the girl gives as she struggles against Darcy's surprising strength.

A chunk of hair tears off as the girl hits the floor chin first, Darcy stares down at the clump in shock, not quite comprehending what he had just done. The the girl on the floor was on her feet faster than she had fallen, rapidly backing away and sending photos flying with each step.

"Leave me alone!" She screeches, arms stretched out on both sides with palms pressed flat against the wall. Darcy's hand tightens around the lock of hair, noticing that the mannerisms that the girl is displaying are similar to his own. She's afraid. Confused. Trapped, just like Darcy.

"Where are we?" Darcy whispers, looking up ever so slightly in hopes of spotting a hidden camera, watching each and every move he makes. A silence that stretches for longer than it should have fills the void between boy and girl, the only sound being the faintest of ringing in Darcy's ears. By the time the girl speaks, her composure has become that of a calmer being, although the slight quiver in her ocean blue eyes gives away her peaceful front.

"Where do you think we are?"

Darcy frowns, the tone of her voice gave the implication that she knew what was going on. Did she know where they were? Did she know why he had been snatched from his mother? Was she a friend, or an incredibly talented foe?

"I don't understand," Darcy finally said, fist clenching as he took a shaky step away from the girl, "What's going on?"

The girls face seemed to soften a bit, "You really don't know, do you?"

Her hand snakes through her head of blonde hair until it reaches the patch that had been torn out, eyes flicking down to Darcy's fist and he realizes then that he is still clutching a chunk of her hair.

"Erm, sorry," He said, holding his hand out towards her. She raised an eyebrow, but extended an open palm and allowed Darcy to sprinkle the strands of blonde into her hand, "And no, I don't know. Can't you tell me? Are you a prisoner? Am I a prisoner? Do you know - I mean, is there a way out,"

"I'm sorry," She whispers, shaking her head slightly. When she stilled, her eyes sparkled with crystal tears, "There is no escape,"

Darcy felt his stomach drop, face falling as he stumbles back into the wall, "No escape?"

"No escape," The girl repeated, "Not from the Hunger Games,"

"Hunger Games?" Darcy squeaked. He didn't think it possible, but his terror managed to multiply itself tenfold. Sweat drenched the skin of his flabby hands, and his heart thundered faster than ever before, "But. . .how? I didn't. . .I never. . .I wasn't chosen! I didn't volunteer,"

"I didn't either," The girl said sadly, looking down at the photograph covered floor. Crouching down, she picked up one of the slips of paper. With a start, Darcy realized that the photo was of the girl. She appeared a number of years younger; surrounded by a group of people that had gathered around a park bench. The girl was smiling down at a large, pink cake, with two large candles representing the number eleven, and the words _Happy Birthday Quinn_ writing across the top in blue icing, "I knew they were going to take people. . .I knew this year was going to be different, but I never thought. . ."

She stopped talking as a sound caught her attention. Darcy had heard it too, his head jerked towards the hatch that had opened of its own accord as a head wormed it's way through. The boy had dark hair and a scar running the length of his cheek, curving towards his forehead and coming to a stop just below his left eye.

He didn't appear to notice the two terrified tributes at first. Both Darcy and the newly named Quinn, who had now joined Darcy with her back pressed tightly up against the wall, watched as the boy pulled himself into the room. His face and shirt bore marks of a fight, blood dotting both his skin and the dark fabric; yet the spear he brought with him bore no signs of a fight, remaining clean yet deadlier than anything Darcy had seen in his life. He couldn't determine whether the blood was the boy's own, or somebody else's.

He only seemed to notice he was not alone when he was halfway across the room, foot an inch away from the plate Darcy had awoken on. He paused, if only for a moment, to take in the sight of the two cowering tributes who watched from the opposite side of the room. He didn't know when it had happened, but Darcy's hand was now intertwined with Quinn's, whose skin was revealing the colour of a sheet of paper.

The boy raised his weapon, if only half-heartedly, and continued across the room with a blank expression. Darcy felt himself going into overdrive, the panic becoming far too much as he let out a disgusting croak before spewing a translucent liquid all over the floor. He spent a few more moment heaving on all fours, not wishing to relive the pain, only to have it happen all over again as another stream fell from between his parted lips. His stomach felt as if it were being stabbed with a hundred tiny blades, his throat was on fire. His head was pounding, vision blurring as he looked up to see Quinn standing between he and the boy.

"I won't let you!" She shouted. If she had been trying to sound intimidating, she had not done a great job of it. Her voice wavered with each word, coming out more like the squeak of a mouse than the roar of a lion, "It's not right! You can't do this!"

Her voice sounded as if it were miles away, and Darcy watched through eyes that could not have been his own as the boy continued to advance with an expression that bore no emotion. He raised the weapon as if to attack, and Darcy was sure that in a moments time Quinn would be skewered like the kebabs his mum would serve on christmas. But instead, the boy swung the spear like a bat. The metal handle struck Quinn in the side of the face; not hard enough to do much damage, but with enough force to send her stumbling away.

The boy did not even look at Darcy as he passed, instead reaching out and grabbing the rusty wheel of the hatch opposite of the one he had entered. Darcy watched as the boy clambered through with little grace, vanishing and leaving no trace that he was ever there. The last thing Darcy saw was Quinn's vibrant blue eyes looking up at him before he passed out.

 **Nathan Carlyle - District Two**

He could hardly believe his luck. What had just a moment ago been a blanket of utter dread and horror was now a cloak that held a sliver of hope. It's almost too good to be true, Nathan thought as he awkwardly crept towards the cornucopia with a nervous smile playing on his lips, regularly looking over his shoulder ever few moments to ensure that the only thing trailing him was the faint shadow at his feet.

The silence that pressed the enormous room was only broken by the short boys footfalls, which grew louder as tile turned to metal. Nathan frowned at the strange assortment of items scattered all over the floor. Spears and swords lay mixed with scattered piles of arrows; a fallen ladder lay only just propped up against the wall of the horn, and a bright blue bag had split beneath it, contents spilling over the floor around it. Nathan strode into the depths of the horn, carefully climbing over the fallen ladder and almost screaming as his foot crunched loudly on a bag of peanuts.

The mess in the tail of the horn was just as bad, if not worse, than the one out front. Items covered the floor so thickly that Nathan could barely make out the metal beneath it. A mace lay on the crumpled lid of a metal crate, as if somebody had attempted to smash the box open, only to not even bother looking inside afterwards. Out of pure curiosity, Nathan pushed the lid away and peered inside. The walls of the box were lined with red felt walls, the interior far smaller than the exterior. The bottom of the crate had been raised so that it was only inches away from the top, and supported only an even smaller box that could be mistaken for a container for an engagement ring. Nathan pulled the box out and opened it, and sure enough, inside sat a golden ring with a large sapphire encrusted in the top. The lid of the box bore a message written in elegant writing.

 _The ring of gold hides a magnificent gift_

 _But in the blink of an eye, the power can shift_

 _The ring holds both a blessing and a curse_

 _How badly does one wish to place first?_

Nathan had only just finished reading the cryptic message when he heard a low growl. Whipping around in the direction of the source, he found himself staring down at a boy snarling at him like an animal. He crawled towards Nathan on all fours, flashing a set of jagged and yellow teeth that were already coated with blood. His hair was wild and matted, framing his already quite animalistic face and increasing the wild look about it.

In a flash, he lunged. Nathan screamed, he screamed louder than ever before, and only managed to step back a second before those jagged teeth snapped at the air where his throat had been moments ago.

He turned around and bolted, leaping over the fallen ladder and landing uneasily on both feet. Not risking a look back, Nathan shot through the open mouth of the horn, only to slam into something solid a moment after. The box with the golden ring, which was still sitting open in his hand, lurched wildly upon impact. The ring flew from the confines of the black box, clattering to the floor soundlessly as Nathan stumbled away from the person he had run into.

"Well, wasn't that graceful?" A voice said, one that Nathan was too preoccupied to notice. With another glance over his shoulder to ensure that the feral boy was not already upon him, Nathan tried to run again. This time, the newcomer wrapped his arms around Nathan's chest as he tried to pass, "Where are you going? We only just met,"

"Let go of me!" Nathan cried, emphasizing each word with a wild kick that struck nothing but the air out in front of him, "Put me down!"

Surprisingly, the boy obliged, loosening his grip and allowing Nathan to slide to the floor, "Don't run,"

Nathan's eye twitched at the command as he stepped away from the boy, unsure on what to do. He could obey the command, and stay put; and risk the chance that the boy will slaughter him then and there. Or he could flee as fast as his legs would take him; but then he runs the risk of the boy attacking him purely because he tried to run. Finding neither of the options all that appealing, Nathan attempted to stall while edging away from the mouth of the cornucopia. He didn't want the wild boy to attack him from behind, "Are you going to kill me?"

The boy smiled, if only slightly, sending shockwaves of fear down Nathan's spine. His only comfort was the fact that the boy bore no visible weapon. If it was a fist fight, he might just stand a chance, "Depends. What district are you from?"

"Ah," Nathan said, realization dawning on him. He should have known it would happen; not that he had had much time to think about anything. The tributes of districts one and four would obviously want to form some sort of alliance. While the extra protection was appealing, Nathan knew that once they found out he was not really the murdering type, his throat would be cut open in a matter of seconds.

He had not answered in a while, the taller boy stood staring down at Nathan with a raised eyebrow. He appeared amused rather than impatient. Eventually, Nathan decided upon the safest option. The truth, "District Two,"

A dark look flashed across the boy's eyes, but evaporated so swiftly that Nathan could not be certain that he had seen it, "Two?"

"Two," Nathan confirmed, rubbing his elbows awkwardly. His knees were quaking beneath him, a tingling sensation running throughout his legs that were begging to run. How long would it take for him to give in?

"I'm Malcolm," The boy said, holding out a hand in such a formal manner that Nathan was rather taken aback, "Malcolm Edison. District Five,"

"Malcolm," Nathan echoed as he awkwardly shook the boy's hand. A flicker of a memory flashed through his mind, a word scrawled across one of the photographs taped to the wall of the room he had awoken in. The picture had been of a young girl, no older than eight, with short blonde hair and thick mud caking her white dress. Nathan had pulled the picture from the wall only to find another one behind it, this one of a boy with the same elegant blonde hair and lightly freckled face; only this time a little older. The boy had been sitting in hospital, wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The photo had been taken from down a hallway, as if the boy had no idea that he had been photographed. That picture had had the same name written across the bottom in the same thick black letters: Malcolm Edison.

"Oh my god!" Nathan cried, dropping the boy's hand as if it were drenched in sewerage, "You're the freak!"

"Freak?" The boy echoed, his voice dark and dangerous. The previous warm and friendly look had vanished, replaced by that flash of rage Nathan had seen in his eyes a mere moment ago. The boy took a large step forwards, so that Nathan's nose was now inches away from the boy's throat, "Did you just call me a freak?"

"N-no-" Nathan mumbled, taking a step backwards only to have the gap closed by Malcolm a moment later, "I-I didn't mean it. It's just what my dad-"

"What your dad called people like me?" The boy snarled, "I'm a freak, huh? Is that what you think?"

"No!" Nathan cried, "No! I would never - I just thought-"

The movement was so quick that Nathan had no chance of evading. Malcolm shoved two hands against Nathan's chest with enough force to knock him off his feet. The shorter boy flew backwards a few feet and slammed into the exterior wall of the cornucopia, the resulting clang echoing around the vast, empty room with an ominous aftertone.

"You think I'm a freak!" Malcolm bellowed, "I'm a freak because I was born in the wrong body?"

"I didn-t-" Nathan choked out, but Malcolm was beyond listening.

"No! I'm going to show you what a freak looks like. I wonder what your dad will think when I'm through with you!" Nathan tried to stand as Malcolm screamed at him, only to have the taller boy deliver a harsh kick to the underside of Nathan's jaw. He let out a grunt as blood sprayed from between his lips. He dropped to his hands and knees and heaved, more crimson blood splattering the white tile alongside a lone tooth.

"You're a monster!" Nathan managed to splutter. Malcolm looked as if he were going to say something further, but the words died in his throat. A look overcame the teenager that was a mixture of utter horror and pure rage. His face took on a red tinge, eyes bulging as he took a step away from the bleeding boy. Nathan had not meant the word to have the effect that it did; he didn't know what an impact it would have the moment it left his lips. But he did not have enough time to regret it as a third body joined the fray.

Nathan screamed and tried to scramble away as the wild boy that had been inside of the cornucopia leapt in his direction. He narrowly missed landing on Nathan's back as the latter reeled up onto his knees, watching in horror as the boy sniffed the blood splattered across the floor like an ancient predator.

Those bright green eyes that showed little human nature within them flicked up to Nathan's face, focusing on his bloody lips with a look of hunger. He lunged, and Nathan was not fast enough to dodge away. With his hands slamming into Nathan's chest like hammers, the boy screamed as his head smashed painfully into the wall of the cornucopia. The boy let out a snarl and with a flash of those disgusting yellow teeth, Nathan let out a cry of agony as the boy tore at the skin of his cheek.

Nathan felt like passing out, not only from the pain, but of the sight of the bloody chunk of flesh that the insane boy pulled away with, dangling between his sharp teeth and quivering slightly as if it were alive. He watched as the boy chewed and swallowed the chunk whole, before looking up at Malcolm with a pleading look, "Help! Please!"

The plea came out as more of a croak; his throat was raw from the agonizing scream he had let out a moment ago. Malcolm looked Nathan dead in the eye, staring at them for what seemed like an eternity before turning his back on the ungodly scene before him.

"No! Malcolm please!" Nathan screamed as the boy began walking away, "Please! You have to help me! You have to-"

The end of Nathan Carlyle's cries for mercy went unheard by all as the animalistic Wolf leant down and sunk his teeth into his prey's exposed throat. Nathan screamed, a scream unlike anything the animalistic boy had ever heard before. But the cry did not deter him, and he continued to tear away at the Nathan's throat, pulling chunk after chunk of flesh away as blood sprayed his dirty and unkempt face. Nathan's screams soon turned to gags, spluttering and coughing up crimson as his windpipe was torn open and filled with blood. The very last thing he saw before death was the back of the freak who had left with no mercy.

 **Brody Lewis - District Twelve**

Brody's hands were trembling as they gripped the rusty wheel of the hatch, eyes clenched shut as he twisted the metal with all of his might. His cheeks were already wet with tears of terror and fear; yet somehow the revelation that he was trapped in the deadly arena weakened the original fear of the unknown.

His arms burned as the unwilling wheel gave a lurch, his flimsy arms screaming at him to stop as he twisted the heavy metal of the hatch on the left side of his room. The process became easier halfway through; the wheel became looser as rust wore away, and he found the wheel relatively easy to turn towards the end.

The room on the other side was an exact replica of the one he had clambered away from. The same circular plate sat in the centre of the room, and the floor was littered with the same photographs that he had seen in the room he had emerged from. He could make out a picture of a tall, blonde girl with a streak of blue tarnishing her golden demeanor. She was perched on the ledge of a tall building, peering down and watching two men dressed in black below who appeared to not notice the girl studying them from above. Evidently, the girl didn't seem to notice that she was being watched herself.

Brody had seen that exact picture in his own room; it had been the one originally taped to the wall. He had also seen countless other images of various teenagers; photos of girls walking with their friends and boys climbing towering trees. He had seen photos of himself; most memorably, a picture of the boy himself standing over the hospital bed of his younger brother. It had been taken a few moments after he had died, yet Brody could not remember a single person having a camera at the time.

The next room was vacant as well; replicating the previous two rooms he had been in. He had refused to go near the open hatches since peering out of it for a split second in his own room; he didn't want to risk being sighted by somebody more bloodthirsty than he. He was unsure if the other kids in the photographs were the other tributes; and part of him was hoping they weren't. While some photo's depicted some scary and skilled looking people, what really scared Brody were the numerous pictures of his own girlfriend from back home. He prayed that she was not trapped in here with him.

Upon the fourth identical yet void of life cubical, Brody concluded that continuing in this straight line was going to get him nowhere. He did not want to risk slipping through the open hatch out into the centre, and the hatch in the ceiling was unreachable at this point in time. This left him with only one other option; the hatch opposite the one that swung open of it's own accord.

This hatch was far easier to open than its predecessors, and swung open to reveal a slightly larger yet completely empty room on the other side. This room only had two hatches; the one he had entered through, and one on the opposite side of the room.

"I know I'm supposed to be terrified," Brody whispered to anybody that was listening, "But this arena idea is extremely dull,"

The moment the words left his mouth, the hatch he had just entered through slammed shut with a bang. At the same time, a section of the floor in the centre vanished, revealing a pool of deep blue water underneath. Curiously, Brody edged towards the edge of the pool and peered through. It didn't look too deep, and at the bottom lay a small bag; similar to one a kindergartener would wear to school, and tied to one of the pink straps was a golden key.

The sight of the water made him queasy, not once in his entire life has Brody ever dipped in a body of water aside from the dirty bathtub back home. The pool didn't look too deep, he would probably still have his head sticking out if he were to stand up straight. But he did not want to risk it, placing a bag in such a shallow pool feels too easy. What if he jumps in and something seals him inside?

Rounding the pool and heading for the opposite hatch, Brody finds himself face to face with a doorknob displaying a golden lock; one that refused to turn no matter how hard Brody might tug.

"Of course," Brody grumbles as he trudges back towards the water, "Why make it easy for me?"

The boy began to chuckle at his ability to make sarcastic comments despite the situation, and that chuckle quickly shifted a fully fledged laugh as he approached the rippling pool of water. Soon, he was on all fours banging his fist; the fear and anger directed towards those who had snatched him from his life bubbling to the surface in an insane fit of laughter. Then he began to cough, and soon he was spluttering and gagging for air as his body was racked with violent coughs. A yellow liquid flew from his mouth and hit the surface of the pool, sinking below the surface as the boy knelt on his knees and wiped his lips. The coughs were not uncommon, he has been sick for a long time. His mother had been so worried when it started; she thought he was going to die. But here he is, still going strong four years later. Or, as strong as a malnourished boy trapped in a battle to the death can be.

While recovering from the painful fit of coughs; Brody started to remove his clothing. Despite being brought up far from any body of water; he knew the dangers of hypothermia that wearing damp clothes could bring. He was painfully aware that a thousand eyes were watching him as he pulled down his pants and kicked off his shoes; but he tried his best not to care. They were going to see a much worse side of Brody before this was all over. Once stripped of all clothing but his underwear, Brody edged closer to the side of the pool and peered over the edge.

He could not see any immediate danger, but he knew he needed to be prepared for a quick exit should something emerge from the shallow depths of the pool. The gamemakers would never make something this easy; never.

Extending a leg, Brody lowered his foot down to the water until his toe sunk beneath the surface. For a moment, everything was normal. He was about to sink his foot further in when a sudden blistering pain exploded from within his big toe. He lets out a scream and yanks his foot away from the water, stumbling backwards and falling down on his backside.

The pain subsides almost immediately, and upon closer inspection of his toe; he finds no visible signs of damage or injury. Crawling back towards the edge of the pool, Brody reaches down and dips his index finger into the water. The same blistering pain erupted from within, it felt as if his flesh was on fire. He yanked his finger from the pool with a hiss of pain; and once again the pain subsided almost right away.

"I just had to be right," Brody says through clenched teeth as he ensures his finger has sustained no damage. He knew that just taking a dip in the crystal clear water would be too easy. The good news was that it didn't seem like the water would kill him; whatever caused the explosion of pain in his flesh did not cause any lingering damage. The downside was that the pain was almost unbearable when just his toe was submerged, how was he supposed to stand dunking his entire body inside.

"Just do it," The boy says to himself, "It will be over in ten seconds. Just do it,"

Climbing to his feet, Brody stood on the edge of the pool and prepared to jump, "Three. Two. One,"

His body gave a violent lurch upon reaching one, yet his feet remained firmly planted on the white tiles. He let out a frustrated groan as he prepared to count down again. It was like his body was disobeying orders; Brody could not quite tell if that was a bad thing.

"Three,"

He was vaguely aware that he was sweating; every single muscle in the boys slim body was tensing as tightly as possible.

"Two,"

He wondered what would happen if he passed out while in the water. Would it eventually kill him? If he did pass out, would his head still remain above the surface? How long would he be able to stand the pain?

"One,"

Every inch of his body screamed in agony as Brody's body broke the surface of the water, submerging up to his shoulders before his feet hit the ground harshly. His flesh felt as if it were melting; and for a moment he was paralysed by the intense pain that was racking his body.

But then he remembered the picture he had seen of the girl smiling brightly on her first day of highschool; chatting with her mother while she walked through the school gates with her fingers intertwined with his. Brody could not die without seeing Felecia again. If she was stuck in this arena as well, he needed to find her.

Fighting against the immense pain, Brody kicked around beneath the water until his foot caught the strap of the bag. His arms exploded through the surface of the water, reaching up and grabbing the side of the pool as he shakily attempted to pull himself up.

He did not even get halfway before his leg tugged violently. He let out a pathetic sob as he looked down and found that one of the bag straps had been caught around a large nail jutting out of the floor in the bottom of the pool; no amount of kicking would free it.

He wanted to give up. The pain was too much. He could feel his body shutting down, his left leg no longer motoring and just floating aimlessly. But Brody knew he could not give up; his mother did not raise a quitter. He cannot die before redeeming himself after what happened to his brother.

Sucking in a deep breath, Brody dove below the surface. He didn't dare open his eyes, and thankfully found the nail almost immediately. His mind was blank; he could not think. He could not picture anything except for his own body writhing about in agony. This pain would never end. This was it. This was death, forever floating through nothingness in pure agony for all eternity. This was his punishment; he was paying the price for what he did to Riley.

His head broke the surface, and Brody let out the loudest scream that he had ever heard. With the last of his strength, Brody gripped the edges of the pool and hauled himself away from the water. The pink bag slapped the floor beside his head; golden key jingling loudly as it bounced against the tile.

The pain subsides the moment his right foot emerged from the water, and Brody found himself lying flat on his stomach; gasping for breath. He did it. He actually did it. Brody Lewis would live to see another day.

 **Wolf - District Three**

Wolf could hear the person approaching him slowly. The boy had moved around him in a wide arc, and was now approaching the savage at a slow and cautious pace. Wolf knew he was in danger; he could sense it. But his hunger was too strong; he hadn't eaten in so long.

The flash of a memory shot through his mind; and for a moment he was back in his cage. The man dressed in white shoved the metal stick through the bars, and the moment it hit his skin; his world was nothing but pain.

Wolf snarled at the memory; as if the intimidation would affect the man even now. He did not know why the man had hurt him, but Wolf had quickly learnt to fear those dressed in white.

The child beneath him had finished moving a while ago; and Wolf missed the struggle. It was exciting; hunting down his prey and taking them out. It was like being in the woods all over again. He had not been there in so long.

Wolf's hunger had not yet been fulfilled; his instincts were clouded by the need to eat. The fresh stench of blood had overpowered his senses, drawing him to the wounded boy like a moth to a light. This is why Wolf did not turn from his meal until something clamped down around his throat.

"Finally got you," A voice snarls. It was deep, Wolf knew that much. He turned and bares his teeth at the towering boy, who did not flinch in the slightest. Wolf felt confused, his prey always tried to run. Why was he just standing there?

"You don't scare me, beast," The boy growls, "Best to tame you now before you do me harm,"

Wolf lunged. His thirst was flesh was strong; stomach far from filled. Wolf had found that humans provided little sustenance and were much harder to catch. The boy preferred a baby deer or a family of rabbits. He was inches away from the boy's neck when suddenly he was pulled to the side.

Wolf let out a yelp, hitting the floor stunned. He couldn't understand; are the white men here? Wolf could not see anybody except for the boy towering over him and the two bleeding bodies that lay close to the enormous horn. The boy was holding a rope, one that extended out towards Wolf. Lifting a hand, the boy found the tough fabric was wrapped around his neck. He was restrained.

Wolf could not understand, the boy was not one of the white men. Why was he doing this? His prey never fought back.

"Come on, beast," The boy said, a smile playing on his lips as he tugged on the rope, "I think we are going to be great friends,"


	3. Day One: Don't Look Down

Day One - Don't Look Down

 **Ivy McKinnon - District Two**

A bright smile curved its way onto the slim face of Ivy McKinnon as she watched the savage boy being dragged away like an animal. He thrashed around violently, growling and snarling in a manner far from human. The boy tugging him along seemed not to notice, merely tugging harshly on the rope that had been tied around the savage's throat as if it were a simple dog leash. She knew that she was correct in lingering around in her hatch for a while; and now here was her opportunity to steal the upper hand.

"Good things come to those who wait," The readhead sang as she slid easily through the hatch; repeating an old phrase that her mother used to say when Ivy was younger. The saying was one of the few pure memories left of the woman. The girl skipped merrily towards the cornucopia as if she were merely prancing through a playground. She had so far found it hard to place a positive spin on her current situation; and it was with great difficulty that she suppressed a twitch of the eye upon sighting two bloodied and mangled bodies splattered against the white tiled floor around the glimmering silver horn.

"It just means there are less people to get in my way," She said meekly, her weak attempt at reassurance aided by forcing a watery smile onto her face. The child-like skip slowed to a very stiff walk as Ivy avoided gazing at the dead bodies; somehow she knew that their gaunt faces would haunt her for years to come. There was little comfort in that thought.

Something small and solid pressed into the bottom of her black dress shoe; and Ivy squealed in delight as she raised her pale-stocking clad leg to find a golden ring discarded on the floor beneath it; an enormous sapphire jutting out of the top. Scooping up the ring and slipping it onto a slender finger in a single motion; Ivy marvelled the magnificent ring with an extended hand. The golden bands matched the daisy yellow dress she was currently wearing. The flicker of a frown flashed across her face as she failed to grasp the memory of why she had chosen it.

A soft sound from somewhere behind broke Ivy from her fixated trance. While unable to locate the source, the redhead found herself briskly walking through the mouth of the horn; not wishing to linger long enough for another person to show up.

The floor was littered with various items, weapons of all shapes and sizes. Despite being born and raised in the heart of District Two, not once in her life has Ivy ever handled a weapon bigger than a knife. She supposed the weapon would have been efficient enough, but the girl found herself drawn to a purple bow that hung from where the string had been caught on the corner of a towering crate. There was no quiver accompanying the weapon, not one that she could find anyhow, so Ivy settled on a small black quiver that held thirteen arrows. She was not at all worried about losing them all; if it came to that, she could just slip back here.

She also found an emerald green handbag that was more beautiful than anything the girl had ever owned. The bag itself was empty; so she scooped up the closest hiking pack and transferred the important contents into the bag. The only thing she could not fit was a pillow; the handbag had been large enough to cram a sleeping bag inside of.

Securing the strap of the bag across her arm and deciding that she had everything she needed; Ivy was just about to leave when she spied the fallen ladder that leaned against the wall. Peering up at the ceiling, she found herself staring through a hole in the ceiling; one large enough to climb through yet too high to reach.

She weaved through the various items until she was beside the metal ladder; which she proceeded to lift and prop up against the pole in the centre. The ladder was heavy, and Ivy was by no means a strong girl. Tall, but not muscular. Once secure, Ivy elegantly climbed upwards with ease. She was vaguely aware that the handbag was weighing her left arm down; but she found it far too beautiful to abandon.

Upon peaking the ladder, Ivy hauled herself through the opening and onto the roof of the cornucopia. For a very brief moment, she felt disappointment flood through her body as she saw nothing but flat metal stretching out in all directions, sloping down steeply as they formed the circular walls of the cornucopia. The tail of the horn towered above her, curling around like the stinger of a scorpion above her head.

But then, she realized that she could see the entire room from this point. She could determine which way was the best to go; which direction looked as if it had gone untouched. For instance, one of the hatches to the left of the horn had a trail of blood paving it's way across the floor towards it in the form of little droplets. Another had a spear drenched in crimson discarded halfway towards it. She spent a short while inspecting, and eventually decided on one that landed directly behind the tail of the silver horn.

Merrily strolling towards the side, Ivy sat down and pushed herself down the side of the cornucopia as if it were a slide. For a moment, the ground came rushing up to meet her, and she wondered if the impact of the fall would break her ankle. But then she suddenly stopped; and instead of plummeting towards the ground, Ivy found herself floating away from the metal wall of the horn instead.

She screamed and pushed down the hem of her dress, which had fluttered up around her shoulders. The movement was slow and sluggish; she felt as if she were moving through an enormous tub of jelly. Yet her body felt weightless at the same time, as if she were easily swooping through the air like an owl gliding through the night.

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do as she drifted further and further away from the ground, drawing closer and closer to the ceiling until she could brush it with the tips of her fingers if she wished.

And then the weightless feeling was gone. Her body felt as heavy as stone; and suddenly she was plummeting back towards the ground far below. Ivy screamed as she twisted in mid air, hoping that the weightless feeling would return and send her spiraling upwards once more. Instead, she found herself falling head first, hands splayed out in front of her as she dropped towards her certain doom.

A flash of deep blue erupted from somewhere close by. The light was so bright it was almost blinding; Ivy found herself scrunching her eyes shut moments before impact. Any second now she would hit the ground head first and it would all be over.

But the impact never happened. Instead she felt herself hit something soft and bouncy, like a new mattress, and with a very short leap into the air, she hit the ground roughly on her back. Sitting up quickly, Ivy's head whipped around in all directions; searching for the soft surface that she had landed on. She found nothing; nor did she find anything that could have created the blue light that had nearly blinded her.

She wanted to dwell on the situation, every fibre of her being wanted to thoroughly search the room for answers. But Ivy did not want to risk whatever had just occurred to happen again; next time she may not be so lucky if she fell from such a height.

Instead, she stood up, ensured that all of her items were safely packed away in her handbag and that her arrows were still in their quiver, and ran.

 **Ryland Hackman - District Six**

The colour white was already beginning to get on Rylands nerves. White walls. White ceilings. White floors. Each surface a blank canvas, waiting to be painted with the blood that flows through the veins of each boy and girl around him. The silver of the metal hatches and the dark rust that tarnished them were not a big enough distraction.

The white walls reminded Ryland of the blank canvas sitting in the corner of his room; one surrounded by paintings he could not quite remember creating. He had been painting the moment he had been taken; Ryland was almost sure of that.

As such, Ryland found a sharp breath escaping him as he pushed open yet another identical hatch, only to be hit with a wall of vibrant colour. The room on the other side was unlike anything he had ever seen; and appeared so out of place in comparison to the dull arena behind him.

The moment his sneakers hit the grassy terrain on the other side; the metal hatch swung shut with a loud clang, but the boy was too amazed to pay much attention to it. He was currently standing atop a small cliff top, littered with towering trees and brightly coloured plants that surrounded the small path of grass on which he stood.

The natural path stretched towards a manmade structure, a rickety wooden bridge stretched across a vast chasm; the bottom of which was made up of the same plants that surrounded him now. A similar platform was situated on the other side of the bridge, a lone palm tree casting a shadow over a rusty hatch that was embedded in a wall of rock. The rocky outcrop jutted from a sloping cliff face that had greenery jutting out here and there; a thick layer of moss covered a large rock towards the bottom that lined the walls of a bright blue stream that snaked through the jungle-like world below.

The room, if it could even be called a room, was as long as it was wide. The surrounding walls were also made up of similar sloping cliff faces to the one opposite him, the one to his left playing house to a gushing waterfall that flowed beautifully down into the river below.

Ryland could not help himself as he closed one eye and raised his hands, the thumb and index finger on each hand forming a similar shape to that of a photograph. He took a mental picture with his mind's eye, wishing more than anything that he had a pad of paper and a set of pencils right now.

It took a while for the boy to come to his senses, a cool gust of wind washing over him as if a gigantic refrigerator had just been open somewhere out of sight. The brief positive and welcome distraction was blown away by the breeze, and Ryland began to grind his teeth nervously as he edged towards the rickety bridge.

As he gripped one of the unstable wooden posts that had been flimsily placed in the ground and peered over the side, he found himself reeling backwards of the weight of the situation finally crashed down upon him. Up until now; he had been outright refusing to accept that he had been taken from his life and thrown into the arena. Convinced it was only a dream, or thinking hopefully that it was, Ryland wandered through room after room, whistling a soft tune that he had once heard on a commercial for the District Nine winery.

He knew he could not pretend like nothing was abnormal forever, but why couldn't he keep the act up for a little longer? The catchy tune began to play on his lips once again, creating a distraction large enough to retain most of his focus. While he was humming, he did not have to think about the danger he was placing himself in.

With shaking legs and sweaty palms, the raven-haired boy nervously stepped out onto the bridge. The dark oak planks groaned loudly under his weight, Ryland's hands lashed out and snatched ahold of the thin ropes on either side of the bridge, chest heaving and eyes held shut.

"It's just another walk," The boy whispered to himself, cheeks burning slightly at the thought that a million people could be listening in, "Just like when you were younger,"

He didn't dare open his eyes as he took another step; planks creaking loudly and ropes bouncing wildly around his grasp. His eyes flew open as a snapping sound echoed around the chasm he was currently perched above; he watched as the smallest chunk of wood, no larger than a golf ball, crumbled away from the plank he was standing on, spiralling down towards the gushing river below and smashing to splinters on a jagged rock that only just peaks out from the depths of the water.

With forced lips, Ryland began to whistle the cheery tune again as he took another step. The song now sounded ominous as his voice bounced off the walls of the disguised room; shaky, breathless, and terrified.

He hadn't clamped his eyes shut this time; instead they remained wide open, staring directly at the hatch that taunted him from the opposing cliff face. The beautiful scenery that he had so desperately wanted to paint only a moment ago now made him feel queasy; it felt wrong to feel so terrified in somewhere so magical. But it wasn't real; it was fake. All of it. The waterfall. The river. The fern trees that stuck out here and there on the cliff face. None of it was real; once these games were over, it would all be gone forever. Maybe even sooner.

"Just a walk," Ryland whispered to himself, "Dad wouldn't let anything happen,"

Hope began to bubble in his chest like an inflating balloon as he drew closer to the end of the bridge; despite the constant groans of protest from the wood below, so far he had been okay. But in the blink of an eye, the balloon burst, and Ryland was screaming as the plank beneath his left foot splintered and broke in half. His leg slipped straight through the gap, dangling dangerously over the river below. The bridge began bouncing violently from his fall, every inch of the structure screaming. His hands were burning as the ropes were dragged down with him, Ryland let go quickly when he heard the fabric begin to tear. With his hands planted firmly on the bridge; one two planks ahead and the other on the one just behind his dangling leg where his other knee gently rested.

He regretted putting pressure on both as he tried to haul himself up, his right hand, the one out in front, broke right through the brittle wood. His head crashed into the single plank that rest between his two dangling appendages. The wood groaned loudly; the splintering wood sounded like the rumble of nearby thunder in his ear that was pressed tightly up against it.

"Dad wouldn't let this happen," Ryland sobbed as the wood cracked, "I'm going to be okay,"

His body gave a lurch as the wood broke. He clenched his eyes shut as he fell forwards, not wanting to watch the rocks rushing up to meet him. But the fall never came. Something grabbed onto the back of his shirt, hauling him back to safety on the rickety bridge.

"Jesus kid," A deep voice said, Ryland's eyes flew open; head whipping around to find a concerned and handsome face staring at him, "That was close,"

"I'm not a kid," Ryland snarled; the intimidating words coming out more like a breathless squeak. The boy just grinned, and for a moment it looked as if he were about to laugh, but the joy was sucked away as the bridge gave another noisy groan.

"We can debate that when we aren't in danger of falling to death," The boy said. He stood and offered a hand to Ryland, who swatted it away and stood up on his own. For a moment, he teetered dangerously over the edge of the gap he had only just been saved from, but he luckily pulled himself to safely with the help of the rope railings.

"Do you need help getting across?" The newcomer asked as Ryland steadied himself, sucking in a deep breath.

"No," He snapped, not even bothering to throw a look over his shoulder. Holding the ropes in a death grip once again, Ryland took a gigantic step that stretched his thighs to the limit, and crossed the gap in a single sweep.

Once on the other side, he wasted no time in hurrying across the final few planks, dropping to his knees in relief once he reached the grassy platform. Sweat coated his forehead, suddenly making him feel chilly as another cold breeze washed over him.

"You oughta' be more careful, kid," The other boy said from behind him. Ryland scowled, climbing to his feet and turning around to be met with a grinning face.

"I'm not a kid," Ryland spat for a second time, and once again the boy just chuckled.

"We'll see about that,"

 **Candace Systic - District Eight**

The girl was crying. She sat amongst an explosion of wildflowers, a dazzling wall of colour that dotted the entirety of the hill she sat upon. With her knees pulled up to a heaving chest and long brown hair masking her face like a veil; it was almost impossible to determine how old she was. Candace watched in a crouched position at the foot of the hill; head of bright hair concealed in a thick cluster of colourful flowers. A lone bee fluttered from plant to plant; paying no mind to the teenager who had invaded it's home and trampled several flowers in the process.

The girl's sobs grew louder with each passing second, becoming so desperate that Candace could no longer hide and hope that the girl would come to her senses and move on. She pushed herself to her feet with bony arms, crushing the stem of a flower the bee had only just settled on. As she scampered up the hill; occasionally tripping on unseen roots and proceeding on all fours for a few feet, she could distinguish a singular word being spoken through the wrangled sobs. Mum.

A tiny seed of doubt sprouted in the depths of her mind as Candace reached the peak of the hill; now standing with the girls back turned towards her. What if this was all a trick? It was not an outlandish theory, it would not be hard to conceal the sharp point of a knife in her lap. Would she feel the sharp pain of a knife digging it's way into her chest if she pulled the girl into a hug?

But the less rational side of Candace crushed that seed into nothingness as she peered down at the girl, she appeared to glow in the light of the artificial sun shining in the baby blue sky that was not really there, and in a flash she was on her knees in the grass, hauling the shaking girl into her lap. There was no stab of pain, no knife in her chest. Only the slight tug of small hands grasping the collar of her shirt and wet eyes leaking tears into the fabric of her black jacket.

Candace didn't say anything; she would have liked more than anything to whisper something comforting in the girl's ear. But what comfort could she give to a child that might as well have been given the death sentence?

They sat like that for a while; Candace rubbing circles into the girl's back. A crumpled photo was clutched tightly in her petite hand, the elder could just make out a beautiful woman with wavy brown hair standing next to a child who barely reached her waist. Maybe that was the reason Candace could not think of what to say; she could not imagine having such a relationship with her mother; the woman was probably glad that her only daughter had been snatched away. Now she could have the perfect family she had always wanted, with her incredibly intelligent eldest boy and already artistically talented seven year old.

Eventually the girl pulled away, pawing at puffy red eyes and sniffling softly. She didn't look at Candace as she untangled herself from the embrace, reclaiming her spot at the very top of the hill, and then peering at Candace from underneath long eyelashes with an expectant look; deep brown eyes shimmering faintly underneath the glare of the sun.

"Is that your mum?" Candace blurted out, jabbing a finger in the direction of the photograph. The moment the words left her lips; she knew what a stupid question it was. A stupid question asked by a stupid girl.

She half expected the girl to start crying once more; but instead she nodded meekly, placing the paper on her knee and rubbing it with her palms in a poor attempt of erasing the number of crinkles that tarnished what would have been a beautiful picture.

"She died a few years ago," The girl said quietly. Candace was surprised at how strong her voice was; only slightly wavering at the mention of her deceased parent, "I didn't know there were any pictures of her left,"

Candace took a moment before answering in fear of saying the wrong thing. She swatted absentmindedly at a bee that fluttered past her right ear, attempting to land on her shoulder, "She was beautiful,"

"She was," The girl said meekly. She had so far been staring down at the photo, but now looked up at Candace with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "My names Seneca,"

"Seneca? I haven't heard that name before," Candace said, and then added quickly, "But it's nice. A very nice name,"

Seneca gave a short giggle as Candace once again tried to shoo away the persistent bee that was determined to use her shoulder as a landing strip, "Thanks. What's yours?"

"Candace," The elder girl said, angrily shaking her head as the bee brushed the tip of her ear. A second bee had joined the fray, this one coming to a rest on her thigh; only to flee when she gave the appendage a jerk, "Candace Systic,"

"I like Candace," Seneca said. Colour was returning to her face as she smiled widely; her grin somehow brightening up the already shimmering room. It was hard to think of the grassy hill as a room; it had been so cleverly disguised. The only indicator as the hill being a fake was the four hatches that appeared as if they were floating in the distance, "It sounds like candy,"

Candace laughed, "That's what my little brother used to call me. He still does sometimes,"

"How old's your brother?" Seneca asked. There was still a pesky bee buzzing by Candace's ear; no amount of swatting would silence it.

"He's seven," Candace said, and then as an afterthought as the buzzing grew louder, "Or I think he is. I don't know how long it's been since I last saw him,"

Seneca frowned as yet another bee drifted over from a nearby flower, this time landing on the younger girls shoe. There were now five bees fluttering around Candace, and as she swung a hand at the air beside her ear to silence that persistent sound, she noticed that the buzzing sound was not coming from a singular bee.

Seneca appeared to notice the sound at the same time, swiftly leaping to her feet with a fearful look on her face as more and more bees began emerging from the thick explosion of wildflowers. Candace let out a screech akin to that of an owl as one of the insects landed lightly on her neck, piercing her skin with it's needle-like stinger.

Her hand flew to her neck instinctively, crushing not only the bee that had stung her, but another that had touched down just beside it. The buzzing sound was now so loud that it could not be ignored, Seneca screamed and slapped at a bee on her arm; but as one bee dropped another two touched down and stung the girl elsewhere.

Candace jumped to her feet as multiple stabs of pain erupted from different area's on her body; another cry of pain escaping in a louder volume.

"Run!" Seneca screamed; or tried to. The moment she opened her mouth, a bee shot right through her parted lips and down her throat. The girl coughed and spluttered and quickly spat the bee back out, and did not dare open her mouth again as she jerked her head towards one of the hatches. Canadace responded with a curt nod, and the two took off as fast as their legs would take them, stumbling down the hill wildly; arms flailing about in an almost comical action as they tried to swat away the bee's that now peppered the sky by the hundreds.

More and more bursts of pain erupted around her body; she could feel the insects crawling underneath her shirt and weaving their way into her hair, and suddenly she could no longer hold back a scream.

It must have been luck that kept the bee's from shooting into her open mouth; and that same luck that prevented her from hitting the ground as her foot caught on something hidden beneath the thick grass, causing her to stumble wildly. The soft and springy grass that had felt so luscious before now acted as a hindrance, Candace found it harder to run as her trainers bounced off the greenery.

She surpassed Seneca as she reached the foot of the hill; the younger girl was now screaming wildly and stamping her feet; no longer running but turning in circles and swinging her arms about violently. Candace narrowly ducked under one of the girl's swings, before reaching out and snagging the hem of Seneca's shirt. With a violent yank, she pulled the girl to her senses. Seneca gave Candace a nod, and the two took off once more in the direction of the hatch.

Candace reached it first, and was thankful that the wheel turned much smoother than all the others she had tried before. Her entire body was screaming in pain, the insects were all over her body. Crawling around on their tiny legs, stabbing their tiny stingers into her flesh, and proceeding to fall to the grass below, dead.

The hatch swung open, and Candace took a step back, intending on letting Seneca escape first. But the girl was no longer with her; taking a look back, Candace saw the girl face down in the grass, hands clasped over the back of her head and legs motoring slowly. Candace knew that she should be saving herself, but she also knew that she could not live with herself if she allowed a little girl to die.

Stumbling back into the swarm, she crouched down and hooked her arms underneath Seneca's armpits, dragging her backwards towards the hatch. Her body felt like it was on fire, tears flowing freely from her eyes, and Candace was only vaguely aware that she was screaming.

Just as she felt as if she was going to pass out from the pain, the backs of her knees hit the chilled metal of the hatch, and with one final burst of strength, Candace threw both herself and Seneca backwards through the open hatch and into the unknown.

 **Grant Gino - District Seven**

The savage Wolf tugged on the thick rope that snaked around his throat; hoping to pull himself free of the boy who held on tightly to the other end. It was difficult to look at him; not quite human yet not a simple animal either. Sharp and jagged teeth that were yellowed and rotted stuck out from between cracked lips, threatening the captor that he could not reach.

Grant found it difficult to look at Wolf; a mixture of disgust and pity swirled violently in the pit of his stomach, he had been hoping that the boy would have already been broken enough to obey. Instead, he fought and thrashed against his restraints, always tugging in the opposite direction and chewing at his confides. Now Grant was the one who needed to break him. There was no saving the wolf.

Little progress had been made following Grant's grand capture of the feral child, his pride quickly dashed as the savage made travel particularly difficult. Grant regretted not snagging a weapon when he had the chance; why had he assusmed that this kid would be enough protection? Wolf could turn and tear his throat out in a heartbeat should he try and release the boy on a target.

The first three rooms he had entered had contained next to nothing. Identical to the one he had rose in save for the metal plate and ocean of photo's, Grant had quickly grown fearful that this was all the arena would be, boxy rooms designed to slowly drive the players insane. But then he had stumbled into the fourth room; vastly different to all of the others.

The room was dark and grey, large sheets of metal covering the walls and numerous scaffoldings stretching from floor to ceiling. In the centre of the room had been a workbench; complete with a vice and a toolbox. Grant had hurried over towards the container in hopes of finding a weapon; a hammer or even a heavy wrench. Instead, the box contained only a small screwdriver. It had not been much, but it was all he had.

There had been no immediate danger; but while fumbling with the lock of the toolbox, a panel in the wall had slid away and a large rat the size of a dog that had thick, batlike wings sprouting from it's matted back emerged from within. Grant would be dead if it hadn't been for Wolf.

The boy's mouth was still ripe with blood, chunks of flesh hanging from his mouth in shreds. Grant had torn a metal pole from one of the towering scaffoldings to use as a prodding stick, something he could use to prod Wolf along if he slowed or knock him away if he tried to attack.

For some reason, the pole terrified the boy. Whenever Grant swung it in his direction, Wolf cowered away and whimpered. But by no means did Grant have any control over him.

Currently, Grant was fighting against Wolf who was trying to leap back through the hatch they had just stumbled through; while Grant was attempting to yank open the opposite hatch with one hand while yanking harshly on the leash with the other.

He almost had the hatch open when Wolf gave a sudden violent lurch. Grant was yanked from his feet, sailing through the air a short way and crashing down into the tiled floor with a sharp stab of pain in his arm. Wolf was on him in a heartbeat; dirty hands clawing through his shirt and digging deep into the skin of his back. Grant screamed in pain, arching his back violently in a failed attempt of throwing the boy off. Wolf clung to his back like a cat; nails digging deeper and breath hot on the skin of Grant's neck.

Grant let out another cry of pain and reached for the metal pole that had fallen from his grasp on the moment of impact; fingers wrapping around the cool metal that slightly numbed the burning pain. Swinging his hand around in an arch; Wolf let out a skittish yelp and fell from Grant's back as the pole smacked into the side of his head. The sound of metal against bone reverberated around the room; silenced by a soft thud as Wolf hit the floor.

Grant rolled over and scrambled to his feet with the pole held out defensively, expecting the boy to leap back to his feet and attack. But the boy didn't move. Worry crashed over Grant; hitting him harder than a speeding train. He dropped to his knees beside the boy and pressed his ear against his chest; praying that he would hear the faint thud of a heartbeat.

Grant wasn't sure why he cared; killing was a component of the game that he wanted to play. The games has been something he had wanted to participate in ever since he was of age. He had never felt any pity for those he had watched lose their lives in previous years; so why was he so worried about this particular boy?

 _Thud_

Grant breathed in relief and pulled his head away from the boy's chest. So he wasn't dead; just unconscious. He could have sustained brain damage, but would that be worse than the animal he was? Grant noticed the rope around the boy's neck had slackened.

After retying the rope; Grant pulled a dry rag from within his pocket and got to work cleaning up the blood that painted Wolf's dirty face; Grant was unsure whether it was the blood of his victims or blood from an unseen injury Grant had inflicted on him.

"You'll be okay, buddy," Grant said, and then with a cruel smile, "I won't let my only weapon die,"


	4. Day One: A One Sided Mirror

Day One - A One Sided Mirror

 **Liberty Cavalli - District Three**

Liberty had never been on the other side of a one-way mirror. It was truly an intriguing experience; watching the life of somebody who had no idea you were viewing them from only a few feet away. She had never taken note of how truly eerie it was; she felt like an intruder watching in, yet at the same time an elevated feeling of control bubbled uncontrollably from within.

The room on the other side of the thick glass was an interrogation room; and a primitive one at that. It was kind hidden in the depths of the capitol; where they usually took children who were uncooperative. They didn't like physically punishing kids who wouldn't answer questions; but that didn't stop them. Liberty knew that just as well as anybody else.

Liberty stood silently in wait; as still as a statue as she waited for somebody to pass. As she waited for a sign. There was no hatch in this side of the room; only a concealed door that she had merely chanced upon. Three hatches sat implanted in the remaining walls of the room that were not taken up by the thick glass; Liberty had named them all. The one on the right was for those of pure intentions; the ones who Liberty was to help would emerge through that gateway. The one directly opposite of the window was neutral; those who have not yet been touched by the pure light but have also evaded the flames that flicker in the depths of the dark. Anybody who emerged from that hatch would be left to their own devices, Liberty would pay them no mind.

The final hatch, the one on the left, was for those of darkness. The ones who thrive on darkness; those who are to be sacrificed at Liberty's hand of total control. It appeared to take hours; she was unsure on how long it would take for somebody to reach her. She had found this room almost right away; a path she could not see but feel with every fibre of her body guiding her to the very place she needed to be. The other twenty three souls in the arena, twenty one now, were not as blessed as she.

A single dot of dried blood stood out against the creamy white background of her dress, sitting in the very centre of her stomach. It was the only droplet of Varick Lamarre's blood to come near her; she was sure it was a sign that she was to flee. Flee or succumb to the same fate of the unworthy. And now here she was, only a small rucksack of supplies and a beaded necklace accompanying her. The necklace was a curious artefact; Liberty had only just snatched it up before gravity shifted in the centre room earlier. Small nubs with sharp tips stuck out on the circumference of each bead; the perfect weapon disguised as a simple piece of jewellery.

She did not know how long she stood there, time was nothing but a swirl of nothingness that existed only outside of the interrogation room. Liberty would have waited for days if she had to. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not moving. Only waiting. Waiting for the job she must carry out.

She did not move as the hatch swung open, despite the burst of excitement, she maintained a neutral state as two girls tumbled into the small room, the larger of the two narrowly avoiding banging her head on the metal table. The smaller of the two, a young girl who looked no older than thirteen, tumbled as limply as a ragdoll from the elder's embrace, falling flat on her back with arms spread wide beneath the low hanging table; splayed out in the dead centre of the room. Coincidence?

The taller girl remained where she had fallen on her own back, curled up in a ball and shivering with her eyes clamped shut. Sound did not penetrate the glass of the one sided mirror; but Liberty was almost certain that the girl was crying. Large red welts peppered her body, looking like overly large, painful freckles. The smaller girl had them as well; although Liberty could only sight her exposed, lumpy legs. Liberty knew what she had to do; while the smaller was unclear, the larger girl had been gifted to Liberty with a clear message. Not to kill. To protect.

She moved almost robotically, arms flat at her sides and head held high above her head as she pushed open the concealed door and stepped into the room. The girl did not react to Liberty's presence; it was likely that she had not heard her enter. Liberty was not surprised; she had learnt to walk as quietly as a cat. The moment she had stepped from her plate in the hall of photographs; she had shed her white dress shoes. All they did was make it harder to sneak.

Liberty paused when she was standing directly over the girl; and almost right away her eyes flashed open. A name passed through Liberty's mind; she was not sure how she knew, but she was almost sure the gift had been granted to her by the holy one.

"Candace," Liberty spoke. Her voice was elegant, royal. Candace appeared to pick up on it, her eyes widening at the very mention of her name. Shrugging off the green rucksack and dipping a pale hand inside; Liberty pulled a tube of ointment from inside. This was how she knew this was fate; what was intended. The cream was for stings; stings like the ones that covered the body of Candace Systic, "I am Liberty, and I have been sent to help,"

 **Felecia Coin - District Twelve**

Felecia was yet to leave her plate. She was not crying. She was not begging for freedom. She was not laughing. But she was smiling.

With long, dark legs hanging over the edge of her plate, Felecia shifted through an enormous stack of photos she had scooped up from the floor. She didn't know most of the people depicted; in fact she knew only one of the numerous people that made an appearance in the pictures. Brody Lewis; the boy whom she had been dating for the last several years. He was the subject of the picture she was staring at right now; looking handsome and smart, dressed in a dark blue suit and tie. A large grin was plastered on his face; and while the viewer could not see what he was looking at, Felecia knew that he was watching her. The photo had been taken on the day of her sister's wedding; her great aunt had taken the picture of Brody as she and her brother-in-law's best man strode down the aisle. It was one of the few photos in the pile that had been taken with consent.

One photo in particular had shaken Felecia up, even if she refused to show it. The picture was of she and Brody sitting on the edge of a cliff that towered over the boundaries of district twelve; her head was resting lightly on his shoulder and his arm snaked around her waist as they watched the sun set. It was a beautiful memory; one she had almost forgotten. But what made the photograph so eerie was that nobody else had been with them at the time. Nobody else knew of their secret place on the clifftop. Who had taken the picture? It had been shot from behind; and as she shifted through the pile, she noticed more and more pictures taken in a similar fashion. How long had this person been watching them?

But Brody and Felecia were not the only subjects; many of the photo's depicted other children of all ages. A boy grinning widely as he embraced a beautiful girl with startling blonde hair. A redheaded girl smiling softly as she was escorted away by a peacekeeper while an elderly man sobbing in the background.

Some of the pictures had names scrawled across them; the picture of the boy grinning while hugging a girl had Osborne Seatone written in black ink across the back. A picture of a girl laying upside down on a couch with a wide grin on her face and an instrument that looked almost identical to a primitive bong held in her hand had Kelani Richards written in blue pen across the top.

The pictures scared Felecia; they terrified her. Her brain was screaming at her; telling her to run and hide and wait for rescue. But Felecia ignored it and forced a smile onto her face; showing fear was weakness. That was what her father always said.

She merely raised her head when the hatch to her left swung open; giving way to a small asian girl that fell ungracefully from the other side. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the current photograph she was holding neatly on the stack beside her, and splaying them out behind her just in case she needed to quickly rise for an escape.

The girl appeared to be just as shocked to find a wide-eyed Felecia watching her from the metal plate; neither girl uttering a word as they took in each other's appearance. The girl was on the chubbier side of the weight spectrum; a waterfall of deep black hair complete with streaks of purple spanning the length of her back, and startling golden eyes flicking about as the girl assessed the room she had literally fallen into.

An unstylish fanny pack was strapped to the girls thick waist; but what really caught Felicia's attention was the crossbow held in flabby, trembling hands. A crossbow that was pointed directly at Felecia's chest.

Suggesting that it was difficult to remain calm upon being held at bow-point was an understatement. Terror sunk it's claws deep into Felecia's back, whispering paranoid theories in her ear and urging her legs to leap up and bound towards that single open hatch in the hopes of finding freedom. But the more sensible side of Felecia knew that if she moved; she ran the risk of that crossbow skewering her with a single bolt.

" _Never let your target know that you are scared,"_ Her father would say, " _You must remember that they are your prey. Not the other way around,"_

Somehow, that advice felt useless when placed on a fourteen-year old girl who appeared scared out of her wits. A vast number of questions had wormed their way into Felecia's mind since she awoke on the chilled metal of the plate on which she currently sat. Where was she? How did she get here? Was this another of her dad's tests?

But now only two thoughts flowed through the gushing river in her mind; she needed to calm this girl down, and where did she find a crossbow?

"If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already," Felecia finally said, surprised at how calm her voice felt; contrasting drastically to the utter terror she felt within, "Unless you're some sick freak who likes to play with their food before they eat it,"

The girl did not lower the crossbow, but her hands ceased their persistent trembling. Her eyes grew hard and calculating; and despite her newfound calmness, the girl did not fire, "If there was to be a sick freak here, it would be the girl happily looking at photographs and cracking jokes while a crossbow is pointed at her chest,"

"What good would freaking out do?" Felecia said, leaning back slightly in a movement that seemed almost casual, "I might as well try and stay calm until I figure out what's going on,"

"Y-you don't know where you are?" The girl said, the point of the crossbow dipping just a bit. As a soft look of curiosity slayed the wavering front of confidence on the girl's face, Felecia was reminded of one of the pictures in her stack of photos; one of a small asian girl peering over a fence and watching on as two rabid dogs engaged in a fight. Watching with not fear, or disgust, but curiosity.

Felecia shook her head, "Nope. I thought the open hatch was a trap, so I didn't check it out,"

"You don't know," The girl whispered, the crossbow falling to her side completely and eyes lighting up brightly, "I'm Jadira Littler! Oh this is perfect! We can work together! You seem strong, have you ever used a sword before? Shot a bow?"

"A sword?" Felecia echoed, hoping that her fear hadn't seeped into the words, is this girl insane, "I can't say I have. I'm guessing you have shot one of those before?"

She gestured to the crossbow, and Jadira shook her head with a giggle, "Not once in my life. Picked it about a few minutes ago. Are you sure you really don't know where you are?"

"I-" Her voice faltered. Yes, she had had her suspicions. She had been sitting cross legged on her plate for almost two hours; theories were bound to pop in and out of her head; and the very plate she had awoken on felt all too familiar, "I don't,"

"The games!" Jadira said, the bubbly edge to her voice vanishing and re-awakening a serious version of the girl, "The Hunger Games,"

"The Hunger Games," Felecia whispered. All of the fear she had accumulated earlier paling in comparison to the terror she felt now; trapped in an arena with twenty-four children, most of which were doomed to die at the hands of another. No warning. No goodbye. Nothing. But now Felecia knew that she had had the right idea locking her emotions away; breaking down in the arena was a terrible no idea. No matter how scary it was. No matter how much she believed she deserved to be here. Staying strong will keep her alive, "Now, I wasn't expecting that,"

Jadria's eyes flickered at Felecia's unnatural calm tone, brows furrowing further as Felecia let out a short laugh, "Really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"

"How are you so calm about this?" Jadira said, taking a step back. Felecia saw her crossbow wielding arm give a jerk, "Aren't you scared?"

"Depends on what you define as scared," Felecia said with a grin, one that made Jadria's lip tremble. Felecia did pity the girl; she saw herself in the chubby asian girl. The real her, the real girl trapped inside the fake, calm shell. On the inside, Felecia was an emotional wreck, and she was the only one who knew it.

"You should be scared," Jadira said meekly. The crossbow arm didn't move, but her left arm did, slipping through an open pocket of the fanny pack, "We should all be scared,"

The girl advanced, and that was when Felecia let her disguise crumble. Putting pressure on her hands, Felecia kicked her legs forwards and leapt into the air, landing upright on the floor right as Jadira pulled something small and sharp from the open pocket. In a moment of panic, Felecia swung her arm out and slapped Jadria across the face. Hard.

The girl's head snapped to the side, entire body twisting as it rebounded from an attack Felecia did not even think possible of herself. He eyes dropped to the object Jadria was holding, and indeed it was a knife. But Jadria's hand had been wrapped gently around the sharp blade, now clenched with dribbles of blood seeping through her fingers, and in a rush of regret Felecia realised the girl had been offering her a method of defence. A method she had just lost.

Jadria turned back to Felecia with tears in her eyes, but beyond those crystal clear droplets was a blank gaze. Felecia felt as if she were staring through a hollow tree stump; there was no emotion on the other side of that gaze. And then she lunged.

Felecia screamed as the full force of the chubby asian slammed into her chest, bowling her over and sending the teenager sprawling, fall cushioned only by the thin blanket of photographs that lined the floor. With her chest heaving, hands trembling, and shoulder blade throbbing, Felecia stared up into those cold eyes that had held so much hope moments ago. Maybe it had been a front; Felecia had been a fool to believe she was the only one pretending. Those gold eyes bore into her; Felecia felt as if Jadria was peering into her very soul, unblinking, unmoving. And then she raised her knee.

Felecia cried out in pain as the shorter girl stomped down on her hand with tremendous force, crushing her fingers beneath the sole of a combat boot. She scrunched her eyes up in pain, and spat out a childish whimper.

 _Never let them know you're afraid_

Felecia forced her eyes open, teeth clenched so tightly that she felt they were going to crack. Jadira was still staring down in an almost animatronic stare, and Felecia cried out again as Jadria twisted her foot, forcing more and more pressure down onto her poor fingers. There was a crack. Tears were leaking from Felecia's eyes, and a blundering yet swift movement, Jadira was pressing a knee into her chest and holding a knife at her throat.

Felecia's whimpering faltered, the cold metal of the blade having a sobering effect as much as it had a terrifying one. If she had thought a broken finger was painful, how bad would a slit throat be?

Those golden eyes were closer than ever, although somehow they were different. Still unblinking, still unmoving. But there was a flicker of something else in there. Felecia could only hope for humanity.

As the seconds ticked by, the girls remained in that position; Felecia on the ground with a knife pressing into her throat and Jadria holding her down with a single knee. Felecia didn't dare attempt to escape or attack, fearing another outburst would set the girl off again, leaving her to come away with nothing but a slashed neck.

Felecia realised the girl's hand was trembling, the knife wavering lightly. The knee against her ribs pressed harder, and Felecia saw her only opening. With as much emotion as she could muster; forming her words around the utter terror and despair and anxiety and anger she had bottled up for years, she whimpered out a single, desperate word, "Please,"

The flicker she had seen before grew, until a blazing inferno of humanity flared through those golden eyes of Jadria Littler. The knife fell slack against her throat, and then clattered to the floor. The pressure on her chest lifted; Jadira did not stand to her feet, but Felecia was free to move.

"Thankyo-" She had tried to thank the girl. Tried to thank her for sparing her; despite how silly it sounded. But she didn't get a chance; Jadira grabbed a fistfull of Felecia's hair in one hand and clenched her other into a fist, throwing it into Felecia's face in a punch so hard that her nose broke under the force.

Her head snapped back, smashing into the tiled floor; photographs giving no protection. She let out a sound that was an embarrassing combination of a groan and a wail. She lay there with her injured hand holding her nose that was now gushing with thick blood, fresh tears mixing in with the sticky substance. Her other hand remained at her side, fingers clenching around the handle of the knife Jadira had dropped. This was going to be her only shot.

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. Her head roared with pain, black spots danced in her vision; but she ignored them, slashing her knife in a wide arc that should have tore through the skin of Jadria's throat. It would have if she'd been there. The room was empty; the only sign that the asian girl had ever been there held tightly in Felecia's hand. Once again, it was only Felecia and her photographs.

 **Ethan Marks - District Eleven**

 _It was difficult to navigate through the dark and deserted streets of District Eleven in the depths of the night; the pouring rain that heavily pelted the road and crackling sound of distant thunder did not make travel any easier._

 _The young boy was shivering, thin and expensive pyjamas that provided little warmth were now drenched and ruined, shirt hanging off in tatters after being snagged on a stray wire of the garden fence. His voice is barely audible as he calls out for the girl who travels alone in the distance, barely visible through the thick layer of mist that accompanied the storm that had crashed over the district._

 _Young Ethan Marks was not sure when he had started crying, but his voice was soon racked with sobs as he called out weakly to the girl. She didn't turn back; she showed no sign of hearing him. It was doubtful she even knew he was there. She stopped a short ways away from the end of the street, ducking down the alley that sat between the Peridot Dentist and the abandoned building that had once been Fredrick Macura's fruit shop._

 _Ethan did not deeter. He continued to stumble after the girl, no longer calling her name but determined to catch up to her. To stop her. His small foot sunk into a pothole obscured by murky rainwater, and with a sudden lurch Ethan dropped to his knees with a gasp of pain._

 _"Ow," He moaned, body racked with shivers. He rolled back into a sitting position with one knee raised; blue cloth torn to reveal a painful looking graze that dribbled blood. He moaned again and placed a hand over the graze; scrunching his eyes tight for a moment before shakily climbing to his feet and pressing forwards._

 _Shouting broke through the ear-splitting sound of rain pounding metal roofs as Ethan drew closer to the alley; only drowned out by a distant rumble of thunder._

 _Her back was to Ethan as he stumbled around the corner into the alley; and she was by no means alone. Two men and a woman dressed in black stood facing her; all wearing varying looks of anger. The larger of the three, a burly man with a snake tattoo running the length of his face, was bellowing loudly at the girl; words that Ethan could not decipher until he was crouched behind a set of metallic trash cans._

 _"-Too late now! You are putting the entire job in jeopardy. It's too late to back out now," He yelled._

 _"I have to keep my family safe," The girl screamed; Ethan could only just make out her pale face from where he crouched. It was paler than a sheet of paper, thick strands of brown hair splattered across her forehead, "If anybody finds out that I'm involved. . ."_

 _"You knew the risks you were taking," The woman shouted over a clap of thunder, "And you already know what happens to those who back out,"_

 _"Do it then!" The girl screamed, "I'm not afraid! I'm not scared!"_

 _There was a flash of silver as the tattooed man lunged; he was faster than he looked; the girl had no time to evade the attack. She screamed a desperate scream as the knife plunged into her stomach, dropping to her knees with a gut-wrenching cry as the man wrenched the knife back. Ethan was aware that another person was screaming as the man and his lackeys fled; only realising it was him by the time he was at her side._

 _"Marcella!" Ethan sobbed, taking her large hand in his small ones, "Marcella!"_

 _"Ethan?" The girl cried; her voice croaking slightly, "Ethan! What are you doing here? You have to go! You have to-"_

 _She stopped and clamped her eyes shut, groaning in pain and squeezing Ethan's hands tightly before whispering, "My bag! The cloth. . ."_

 _Ethan fumbled for the bag that had fallen from Marcella's shoulder when she had, pulling out a dirty first aid kit and rummaging through it until he found a thin blue cloth, "What do I do?"_

 _"Hold it down," Marcella said weakly, the grip on his hands weakening, "Hold it as hard as you can,"_

 _Ethan's hands were as cold as ice as he pressed the cloth against the wound that was gushing blood, hands trembling violently as the blue fabric was stained red, "Hold it,"_

 _"I can't!" Ethan sobbed, "Marcella! I'm trying but I can't!"_

 _"You can," Marcella mumbled, "You can do anything, Ethan,"_

 _Her hand fell slack in his, slipping to the ground as her eyes rolled back into her head._

 _"Marcella?" Ethan said meekly, prodding her head with a finger, "Marcella! Please wake up! Marcella, you have to wake up!"_

 _He pressed harder against the wound with the cloth; tears falling heavier than the downpour of rain. But he knew it was useless. Somewhere deep down, he knew there was no saving her. Marcella Marks was dead._

 _****_

Ethan winced as he wrapped the tan bandage around the gaping wound in the back of his shin; the immense pain that wracked the limb was nothing compared to the utter shame he felt at this very moment. He had spent hours dragging himself to safety; like a weak child. Manoeuvring through the hatches was the hardest obstacle to overcome, although the room with plants that tried to strangle him was pretty difficult too.

He leant back against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief upon tying off the bandage. He never thought that he would need to put his first aid skills to use on himself; frankly, he could not even imagine himself getting injured. The only scar that tainted his perfect body was a faint scrape; all that remained of a deep graze sustained in the middle of a storm years ago.

Ethan had been the best in his first aid training; which was no surprise, he strived to be better than the rest at everything. He still felt fuzzy at the praise he received from his teacher.

While his wound had been treated and bandaged, he still could not walk on it. Hopefully, he would stumble across a room with either some metal or wooden beams that he could transform into a crutch. As of now, he was sitting in a large room that looked like the interior of a large, abandoned warehouse. Dozens of large, wooden crates were spread out across the floor, creating dusty aisles that were thick with cobwebs.

So far, the crates were impossible to open. He had only tried a few before giving up; his injured leg was sapping all of his energy. There were four exits from the room; one on each wall; so Ethan had found a tight corner surrounded by boxes to hide in. He needed rest; and so far this was his best option.

His pack had come with a pillow, but now quilt, so he lay with only a thick parker for warmth on the cold floor. He must have dozed off for a while, because he was soon jolted awake by the sound of a hatch creaking open.

He jerked up violently, and gasped in pain upon putting pressure on his injured leg. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes from the pain; the painkillers he had taken before must have worn off. He didn't want to risk popping another now; just in case whoever was in the room heard the crinkling of plastic.

"Is this a good enough place to rest?" A voice said. A girl's voice. Ethan peered over the lid of the crate separating his corner from the aisle to see a tall, thin girl with blonde hair that had been streaked with blue impatiently tapping her foot as a short, chubby boy clambered through the nearest hatch.

"No," The boy grunted, his voice was high-pitched and shaky, "No we have to keep moving,"

"Darcy, we can't walk forever," The girl pleaded, placing a hand on the boys shoulder. He jumped at the contact and leapt backwards, and with a jolt Ethan realised that he recognised the boy. He had been all over TV a few years ago. Darcy Retorre, the infamous survivor of the District Nine kidnappings. The only survivor of the District Nine kidnappings.

"We don't have too," Darcy said, "But anybody could be hiding here, couldn't they? I mean, we could just be sleeping, or resting, or just walking and talking, and then somebody leaps out from behind a box and then we're dead,"

"You're overthinking things!" The girl sighed.

"You're welcome to stay here if you want, Quinn!" The boy huffed.

"Alright then, I will," Quinn said, folding her arms with a firm expression. The answer was obviously not the one Darcy had been expecting, because he froze with a petrified expression on his chubby face.

They stood in silence for a moment, one that stretched into a minute, before Darcy spoke again in a much softer voice, "Please don't leave me. Just a few more rooms, I promise. I just really don't feel safe in here,"

Quinn's firm expression crumbled, and with a soft sigh she said, "Alright. But first, we should try and open some of these crates. They could have supplies in them,"

Ethan waited in silence as the pair attempted to open a small number of crates, before realising that they were all sealed and giving up. When at last, one of the hatches on the other side of the room swung shut, Ethan sighed in relief.

His hand snakes through the open zipper of the front pocket of his bag and snags the already crumpled packet of painkillers. Popping out two of the pills, he shoves them into his mouth and swallows them dry; no use wasting water if he isn't thirsty.

He waits for the flaring pain in his leg to dull before moving, using the heavy crate in front of him to haul himself up, ensuring that his injured leg is a few inches away from the floor. A mere two boxes enclose his corner away from the closest aisle; and another two rows over is the closest hatch. An idea sprang to Ethan's mind as he gazed at the tip of the metal hatch that peeked over the large crates; the boxes remained lonesome on this side of the room; whereas they were stacked to the ceiling high above in other places.

Slowly, and carefully, Ethan shimmied over the crate enclosing his corner and collapsed in the aisle on the other side. He landed roughly on his leg, and remained on the floor for a few minutes; gasping for pain and waiting for the black spots to quit dancing in his eyes.

He then used the same box he had fallen from to stand up; and proceeded to awkwardly move across the room in a peculiar mix of a hop and a hobble. As he had discovered upon first entering the warehouse room, the aisle created a single path and a single path only. Meaning that after you proceeded from one aisle to the next; you would have to walk the length of the entire aisle in order to proceed further.

Thankfully, this aisle he was currently in had an opening at the end he was currently situated; and as for the next row, well, he did not intend to walk all the way around in order to reach the hatch. His hand found a niche in the wall right beside the single box that separated Ethan and the hatch.

The crate was tall enough to block over three quarters of the hatch, and it appeared heavy enough so that it could not be opened from the other side. Ethan's plan was to seal himself inside of the room and wait for his leg to heal, but his one issue was that the crates might be a bit more than he could handle.

Holding onto the niche to keep himself steady, Ethan pressed a hip against the side of the crate and pushed. The crate itself did not move; it might as well have been bolted to the floor, but just as the boy was about to give up, the side of the box moved. He was so astonished that he lost his grip on the wall and fell onto his butt; watching with wide eyes as the side of the large crate swung open like a door to reveal a dark and empty space inside.

He sat for a moment, just staring at the open box in wonder. But then, after manoeuvring around so that he was resting on two knees, Ethan crawled forwards lightly and stuck his head inside of the box.

There was little light inside, but there was enough for him to see that there was a long, dark passage inside; one that stretched an unknown distance to his right.

This must be why the boxes wouldn't open, Ethan thought. The boy spent a few minutes moving back to his corner and packing up his little set up, pulled a small flashlight from the depths of his bag, and then crawled back to the open box.

He knew the crawl would be long and painful, even with light touches, his injured leg throbbed violently with pain. Once his entire body was inside the crate, he flicked on the torch and closed the door. He shone the flashlight down the passage, and unfortunately could not see much more than darkness.

Sticking the flashlight between his teeth and securing his bag on his pack, Ethan Marks crawled into the unknown.

 **Ryland Hackman - District Six**

"Time for a break, kid," Osborne said casually as a hand clamped down on Ryland's shoulder. The younger boy scowled at the mere mention of the nickname, not even bothering to turn and find that irritatingly bright smile and energetic eyes; instead opting to shrug off the boy's hand and continue walking.

"Stop speaking to me like I'm a child," Ryland huffed. The elder boy, by only two years to Rylands utmost annoyance, had not left the youngers side since saving him on the bridge. Aside from being the most insufferable person Ryland had ever met, he continually insisted on treating Ryland as if he were a small child, "And I'm not tired,"

"You sound like a child to me," Osborne said with a chuckle. Ryland ignored him and worked on the next hatch with difficulty. To make matters worse, Osborne reached out and helped him pull the door open.

"I can do things for myself, you know!" Ryland growled, attempting to shove the boy aside and instead merely making the boy laugh as Ryland's hands meekly bounced off his muscular chest. Flushed with embarrassment, Ryland turned his back on the boy and clambered through the open hatch.

"People usually say thank you when somebody offers them a service," Osborne teased. Ryland once again opted for ignoring the boy rather than retaliating. Slipping through the opening and landing feet first in what appeared to be an old fashioned classroom. Nothing like the ones of the present day; this class lacked the digital textbooks and holographic board at the front. Instead, twenty-four singular desks sat in a four neat little rows, each supporting an open workbook of a different colour. A dirty blackboard made up a large portion of the front wall, colourful chalk drawings of ponies and rainbows littered the board. A set laminated sheets of paper sat in a line above the blackboard; each displaying a number between one and twenty-four. Everything in the room looked neat and fresh, aside from two of those numbers. The number three was lacking the bright colours that the other pieces of paper had, while the number one was torn through the middle so that only half of the number was visible.

Ryland must have been staring at the room for too long, because he suddenly felt a lurch as heavy shoes slammed into his back and sent him sprawling to the floor. Ryland took out a chair as he fell, pulling the plastic seat down on top of him.

"Wow, you really need to be more careful, kid," Osborne said chirpily from somewhere out of sight. Just as Ryland was pulling himself up, a firm hand grasped his bicep and hauled him up as if he weighed nothing more than the small chair that had fallen on him.

"Stop calling me that!" Ryland shouted, fuming as he whipped around to face the boy, "I have a name!"

"But it's so much more entertaining to call you 'kid'," Osborne laughed. Ryland scowled and turned his back on the boy, eyes landing on some very unstylish green sofas lining the left side of the room.

"Fine. We can rest here," Ryland said. He didn't have any belongings himself; he had not rushed into the centre like some of the others, but Osborne flung his large backpack across the room so that it hit the wall with a bang; knocking a number of children's paintings from the wall before falling limply to the couch. He did not detach the bloody axe from his belt.

"Why are you so careless?" Ryland sighed, stalking across the room in order to clean up the mess Osborne had made. He was desperate to get away from that axe; despite Osborne's reassurance that the blood was only that of a mutt, the weapon still made him uneasy. Shoving the pack aside so that he could pick up some of the papers that had fallen on the couch, Ryland froze at the site of them.

Each were poorly created paintings; incorrect colours and disproportionate figures made the fact that they were drawn by children more than apparent. But what really caught his eye was a drawing of two boys, or what looked like two boys, they also looked like flowers with arms, standing together on a bridge. One was tall and blonde, while the other was much shorter with dark brown hair. It did not take a genius to realise that the drawing was of he and Osborne.

Placing the painting aside, he found a more gruesome drawing underneath. Two figures were drawn high above the ground, one with a large smile plastered on his face while the other had two large x's for eyes. But what was truly disturbing about the painting was the that latter of the two was lying flat in the middle of the page, with a large spiked stick jutting through his chest. Flecks of red paint surrounded the boy who was quite clearly dead.

Ryland dropped the painting with shaky hands. The depiction of he and Osborne had been something that had actually happened; somehow this picture of a boy who had probably died at the hands of a grinning kid wielding a spear made everything feel a lot more real.

He was going to call out for Osborne to take a look when he caught sight of a third painting that had fallen; this one only just sticking out from behind the head of the couch. Ryland felt a pang of both longing and fear as he pulled the drawing out into the open.

The picture was of a family of four; a mother, a father, and two young boys. The drawing surpassed the others in quality by far, and Ryland exactly who had created it. Him. Scrawled across the bottom in sloppy hand writing was - Ryland Hackman, Age 8. At the top, the words _My Family_ was written poorly in black paint.

"How?" He squeaked. It was the only word that came to his mind, how could the game-makers have acquired this drawing? He lost it years ago, "Impossible,"

"Woah, this is insane," Osborne said from the other side of the room. Ryland tore his gaze from the old painting to see the taller boy bent over one of the desks, staring down at a sheet of paper with a milky white expression, "I-I don't understand,"

Not letting go of the drawing, Ryland crossed the room and peered down at the paper Osborne was so shaken by. It looked like a mathematics test, one taken years ago if the yellowed paper indicated anything. At the top of the page, the name _Osborne Seatone_ was scribbled in wonky writing, alongside _Age: 7._

"I never was good at math," Osborne said with a nervous chuckle. Ryland ignored the attempt at humour, and proceeded to peer at the pages on each of the desks until he came across one with his own name printed on the top. It was an old spelling test, one branded with a large, red C- on the top. The sheet of paper brought a shameful tear to his eye, and he let out a small sob as he read the incorrect spelling of the word sneaker.

"Hey, kid!" Osborne called, rushing over from his own desk, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" Ryland snapped. He wasn't sure why he was crying; but this entire situation was creepy. Something about this arena feels different to the others. Why had these select twenty-four been chosen? Was it by random selection, or did they all share a common desired trait, "It's all just a little-"

He stopped talking a small squeak of a sound caught his attention. Osborne must not have heard it, continuing to peer at Ryland with raised eyebrows, waiting for the boy to continue. When he realised he wasn't going to, Osborne opened his mouth only to be shushed by Ryland.

Holding a finger up towards Rylands mouth, he made a gesture with his hands that meant ' _keep it down'_ and he pointed in the direction of the teachers desk where the sound had come from. Osborne got the message and nodded, and rounded the desk in a silent manner Ryland did not know possible of the taller boy. He shoved his way in front of Ryland and drew his axe, Ryland was once again annoyed with the insinuation that he could not protect himself, but now he was not able to voice his protest.

The floorboards made no sound as Osborne crept closer to the desk, Ryland deciding to wait by his desk. The sound of ragged breaths met Ryland's ears as Osborne passed the front row of tables, how had he not heard it before?

Osborne raised the heavy axe above his shoulder, ready to swing should somebody or something spring out from behind the heavy desk. The weapon looked so natural in his hands, was he really prepared to just kill somebody without hesitation? Why had he saved Ryland if that were the case?

A loud squeal from behind the desk pierced the eerie silence; Osborne took a surprised step backwards a thin, dark skinned girl leapt up from the other side of the desk, brandishing a metal staff and swinging it wildly, the tip of it only just missing Osborne's chest by inches. The girl looked terrified; eyes clenched shut and tears pouring down her face as she swung the weapon helplessly. Ryland's eyes flickered to Osborne, who still held the axe raised. Was he really going to kill this girl?

But then he dropped the weapon; actually dropped it. The axe dropped to the floor, hitting the floor harmlessly as Osborne rushed around the table. He said something to the girl in a low voice that Ryland could not make out, and grabbed her arm and lowered it gently.

"My weapon is on the floor over there," He said, a little louder now so that Ryland could here, "I promise I won't hurt you. We both promise,"

Her caramel eyes flicked up to look at Ryland at the same moment Osborne shot him a pointed look. Ryland slowly nodded with the help of a watery smile, gaze flickering between the two behind the desk.

"My name is Osborne," The blonde said in a loud and slow voice, as if the girl did not speak English, "And this is Ryland,"

The mention of his name sent a tingle down his spine; it was the first time Osborne had used it since they met, "What's your name?"

"Y-Yvette," The girl stuttered, gaze falling down to where her fingers drummed against the handle of her staff, "Yvette Macura,"

"Nice to meet you Yvette," Osborne said cheerily; cautious demeanour vanishing and his usual cool and collected self returning, "You're welcome to stay with us if you want. I've already taken one kid under my wing,"

"I am not a kid!" Ryland huffed once again. Osborne smiled but did not turn away from Yvette, who let out a puff of air akin to a laugh.

"Yes," Yvette said softly, "Yes, I would like that,"

"Great!" Osborne said, taking a seat on the large wooden desk and swinging his legs across it so he was now facing the classroom, "We were just going to take a break, so relax and have a snack,"

He pulled something from his pocket that was sealed in a white package, possibly a muesli bar, and chucked it to Yvette. As the girl thanked him and bit into the muesli bar with an adorable smile, Ryland found himself thinking a disturbing thought. They weren't always going to be this lucky. Sooner or later, they were going to run into somebody who they would have to fight; maybe even kill.

Ryland looked as Osborne as he picked up his discarded axe, flexing his bicep unintentionally beneath his sleeve. He was very muscular, and he must know his way around a weapon if he has already killed with that axe. For the first time since meeting him, Ryland was thankful to have Osborne around.


	5. Day One: A Swirl of Emotion

**Heath Graves - District Ten**

He should have known it was a spectacularly stupid idea. Of course, that was what made the stunt so appealing. He had thought he was stealthy enough to pull it off; to make it away with the girls bag on his back without her noticing until it was too late.

Of course, Heath Graves was not a lucky person. The girl, Willow Drake of District One, had whipped around the moment his fingers grasped the fabric of the closest strap. For a moment, time slowed. Heath stood with wide eyes, a deer caught in the headlights, as Willow Drake stared at him with a murderous look in her eyes.

A pale hand flicked to her waist, Heath barely had enough time to duck and roll as the knife flew past his head. He was shocked by the precision of the attack, he had never thought she would have improved so quickly. He had seen her mediocre shots a mere five hours ago; by pure chance did she slash open the leg of a fleeing Ethan Marks.

He wasn't about to wait for the girl to grasp another knife. With a single bound of his legs, Heath flew back through the open hatch he had entered through. He only just had enough time to flash the girl a toothy grin and a flirtatious wink before slamming the metal door closed.

Whistling happily to himself and wistfully thinking he was in the clear, Heath leapt for the next hatch, pulling it open and slinking through to the otherside. The room on the other side was an old fashioned library, and it did not take long for Heath to find himself lost amongst the towering shelves that created a boring maze of literature. Despite the present danger of his situation, Heath could not help but pull one of the books from the shelves.

"The Love of a Peacekeeper," He read aloud, and then rolled his eyes, "Pft, romance is a joke,"

He tossed the book aside, unfortunately masking the sound of the nearby hatch creaking open. Heath was oblivious to the other girl in the room until her knife punctured the cover of another book he was checking out. Whipping around, he squealed like a child and bolted, mortally wounded book still in hand.

He weaved his way through the maze of shelves, hoping to lose the girl in the fray. Unfortunately, she pressed on persistently.

"Can't we sit down and talk about this over a nice cup of tea?" He shouted over his shoulder. His answer was a third knife clipping his ear. Heath screamed as a chunk of the flimsy flesh was torn away, leaving him with half an earlobe and a murderous girl still hot on his tail.

He scooped up the knife that pinned the rest of his ear to the floor as he ran past, fumbling clumsily for his bag to shove both the book and the knife inside. He was surprised he was still up and running; he had always been a fast boy. Troublemakers needed to be fast if they wished to remain uncaught. But he was sure the career girl from District One would have torn him apart by now.

Blood dribbled down the side of his face, hot, wet, and sticky as Heath leapt at another hatch, frantically pulling at the handle with nimble fingers. The room beyond was more of a tunnel than anything. A rocky passage stretched onwards before Heath, and soon the boy was tearing down his only escape route. He could hear the hatch slamming shut behind him.

Willow was still hot on his tail, and Heath's only hope was that she was running low on knives. The passage soon opened up into an enormous cavern. Narrow, rocky ledges ran along the dark stone walls of the room, while the centre opened up to an enormous pool of water that was churning faster than Heath's heart was thundering. A whirlpool.

The ledges on the sides were too narrow to run across quickly, and diving headfirst into a whirlpool has never been Heath's idea of a party. So, like the reckless idiot he was, Heath turned around and flashed another smile at the murderous girl charging after him.

She slowed for a moment, and Heath was briefly given the impression that his flirtatious grin had worked. It wasn't uncommon, many of the guys and gals back home had fallen under his spell with a simple smile. Or maybe it was the other way around?

His response was a knife in his shoulder. Heath screamed, voice louder than the sound of water crashing dangerously over rocks below. The force of the impact pushed him backwards, left foot slipping from the ledge and he only just managed to pull himself to safety instead of plummeting to the churning water.

The pain was almost unbearable, dark spots peppered his vision so thickly that he could not even make out the girls face as she stopped in front of him. It took him a moment to realize that she was out of knives; her final weapon now causing Heath pain like he had never imagined. She looked furious, furious enough to strangle him with her bare hands. Could he use that rage to his advantage?

"So, He croaked, smiling weakly despite the blood drenching his shirt and face, "I'm guessing getting that cup of tea if off the table?"

The girl screamed, literally screamed, in anger and charged. Had he not been impaired by the knife, maybe Heath would have been able to dodge. Instead he stood motionless as Willow crashed into him with the force of a speeding truck. Her arms wrapped around his waist, forehead crushing his nubby nose and scream of rage harmonizing with his cry of terror. With no way to save himself, Heath could only scream helplessly as the force of the tackle sent both he and Willow flying over the ledge. They plummeted as one.

The water was colder than he would have expected, the icy chill making the pain in his shoulder and ear that much worse. The force of the current in the water was strong, and Heath only managed to surface for a short breath before he was pulled back under. Willow was no longer wrapped around him; he had lost her in the swirl of the water.

His lungs were already crying for air, and try as he might, Heath could not pump his limbs fast enough. The water forced him downwards, deeper and deeper into the pool. Further and further away from the surface. His eyes were clenched shut, tears torn from his eyes before they could properly form.

Heath knew that he was wasting his energy by moving his limbs. It was of no use; there was no escaping this pool. That was when Heath Graves let go and allowed the current to sweep him away.

 **Ethan Marks - District Eleven**

The crawl was agonizing. Not even the painkillers could numb the immense pain that flared through his torn limb each time the leg hit the chilled floor. He was forced to stop and take a breath every few seconds, some part of him wishing he could turn back. But turning back was not an option, if Ethan Marks was anything, he was not a quitter.

The light of the torch between his teeth flickered about wildly as he crawled; and after a while he concluded that he might as well switch it off and save the battery as he could not see anything anyway.

The passage seemed to stretch on forever, and endless tunnel that would occasionally branch off in another direction. Ethan had never thought of himself as claustrophobic, but as minutes drew into hours with no end in sight, he was starting to grow a little panicked. What if this was just a trap? A trick from the gamemakers, an attempt to weed out the weak and injured who preferred to hide and cower rather than fight.

He had a sudden thought of being attacked in here; some kind of dark creature could lunge from the shadows ahead at any moment and tear him apart before he could even blink. And he would never see it coming.

Frantically, he reached for the torch he had previously stashed in his pocket and flicked it back on, shining it ahead and wincing as if he expected to find some kind of ravenous beast awaiting him.

Instead, the light fell on an opening ahead. It was still a short ways away, but it was definitely there. A soft, blue glow seeped into the passage through the gap, and despite the pain, Ethan began hurriedly crawling towards it.

The small, metal torch clacked loudly against the metal floor as he dragged himself forwards, chest bubbling with eagerness to escape the confines of this tunnel that had so quickly become his prison. He was so frantic to escape that he literally fell from the opening and crashed into the room below chest first; thankfully the drop was not high enough to cast any serious injury.

With a groan, he propped himself up onto his elbows; not trusting himself enough to stand, and took in his surroundings. The room was small, much smaller than any of the rooms he had come across so far.

Before him was a large, black, leather chair that sat in front of a wall of monitors. Those flickering screens were the rooms only source of light; already that faint blue glow against darkening shadows were giving the boy a headache. Slowly but surely, Ethan dragged himself over to the chair that had been bolted to the floor and hauled himself into a position akin to standing, with his injured leg raised and weight resting on the large chair.

The wall was made up of around thirty-five screens, most of which were flickering off and then on again, only to present its viewers with a blur of static. Five of the screens were actually showing something, and with a sharp intake of breath, Ethan realized that the first of them was showing the arena.

He knew because he recognized the girl. The one with the white hair; the one that had thrown the knife that tore apart his leg. He watched out of some sick curiosity as she lunged at a boy who stood teetering dangerously over the edge of a rocky ledge. She crashed into him before he could even react, and Ethan let out a small yelp as he watched the two plummet towards the water below. Right before they made contact with the swirling whirlpool, the screen flickered to show a lone boy sitting with his back against the wall, a spear in his hand, eyes wide open.

The next screen showed three girls sitting in a room. The picture was in black and white, but Ethan knew he had seen the room before. He had seen it the day after his sister's murder. It was an interrogation room.

A young girl lay unconscious across the table, her body dotted with fat spots that must have been painful by the way she was grimacing. A girl wearing nothing but a simple dress watched on with an almost robotic expression as a third girl knelt by the girl on the table. The third was yelling something at the girl in the dress, who only responded with the same blank expression.

The next image confused Ethan greatly, because it could not possibly be the arena at all. The screen showed a crowd of people, all jeering and shouting at a boy who had his back turned to them. The boy was crying, and Ethan winced as a stone shot out from somewhere off screen and smashed into the side of the boy's head. Many in the crowd held signs, the most defined saying 'Freak of Nature'.

The fourth screen showed something less disturbing; actually, it was rather comical. A boy with thick glasses sat in a barber's chair, staring at himself in the mirror in horror. The man who Ethan presumed to be the barber was saying something with an apologetic look, placing down his shaver with shaky hands as the boy reached out to touch his bald head. Something about the look made Ethan shudder, and he suddenly he realized that he was the boy who had died at the cornucopia earlier.

But it was what was on the fifth screen that truly disturbed Ethan. He couldn't stop looking; he couldn't tear his eyes away. The video was of a man and his daughter; a girl who wore an all too familiar grin. He had seen it when she ran from the cornucopia, abandoning him to perish at the hands of the girl with stark white hair while saving her own skin.

She was much younger in the video, maybe around five. She was giggling happily as she pet a dog that had a bow tied around it's head; most likely a present for the ecstatic girl with the insane grin. But what disturbed Ethan was not the young girl, but the man who stood by her. The man that looked down at the girl with pride and happiness. The man who had haunted Ethan's dreams for so many years. The man with a snake tattoo running down the side of his face.

Tracey Smith - District Six

Tracey could not remember the last time she went to sleep without a drink. She never realized how difficult it would be without one, when did it become a habit?

She sat slumped against the wall, sat awkwardly on a bench one would expect to find in a park. Tracey would know, she had passed out on enough of them. The room was like a prison cell, one hatch on this side of the bars and one on the other, although the one inside the cell was concealed quite well.

The door between the two was locked, but Tracey possessed the key to open it. She had locked it herself. The other side of the bars played host to an actual bed, it looked so out of place in the dark and grimy jail, but for some reason Tracey found herself more at ease inside of the cell. It was familiar. It was home.

She didn't deserve comfort.

The tribute to the fallen did not help her already dampened mood, the music was so loud and painful that Tracey was forced to clamp her hands down over her ears and watch in silence as tears fell. She deserved to be here. This was her punishment. Maybe the gamemakers selected and took those who wouldn't be missed. Those who didn't mean anything to anybody. Maybe they chose people who didn't belong anywhere else.

The first picture was of a small boy from District One, Varick Lamare, the name read. His hair was like the fuzz on a peach, as if he had recently tried going bald and then changed his mind. She had not seen his death, but she had heard it. The sound of that spear exploding through the centre of his chest refused to leave her head. The fact that she was dumb enough to take a peek at the gored body afterwards did not help her guilt. She could have helped. She could have done something.

The second face was of the boy from District Two, Nathan Carlyle. His mouth curved into a smirk that looked almost mischievous. His eyes were wide and overflowing with character. What had he done to deserve the worst punishment imaginable? Had he deserved the death he received in the end?

Tracey could not forget those faces for hours after they vanished. As she curled up on that bench and cried herself to sleep, she couldn't help but think about the fact that the light in their eyes had been snuffed out. How they probably deserved what was coming to them. How she deserved what was coming for her. Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, she longed for the numbness brought by drinking herself stupid. It was hours before she finally fell asleep.


	6. Day Two: The Music Box

**Seneca Pelletier - District Seven**

Seneca felt better the moment the cream hit her skin. She was not sure how long she had been lying there in pain, drifting in and out of consciousness while around her the world was nothing more than a noisy blur.

Her dreams had been confusing, leaving Seneca feeling restless and unsettled. They had appeared so vivid, so real. There was one steady figure that appeared frequently, a dark skinned boy who flashed through scenes that were almost too fast for Seneca to pick up. The first was of him and another boy playing together; she couldn't remember if they were laughing or fighting. The second was of the same boy a little older, looking down at a twisted and mangled body that lay motionless at the foot of a staircase. The final clear scene she could remember was the boy standing beside an empty hospital bed; his face void of emotion yet still plastered with an unsettling smirk.

There were also some dreams of a girl in white. She had been watching over her, every so often brushing loose strands out of her eyes. Had she been real? She kept telling Seneca the same phrase, over and over and over.

"God will make his decision,"

She gave Seneca a bad feeling; like a parasite worming its way into her mind; and now Seneca found herself thanking god for saving her as the pain lifted enough for her to think clearly.

"You're lucky I stole this before she left," A voice said in Seneca's ear. The young girl's eyes flew open, and she found herself staring at a blank, grey ceiling. At her side was a beautiful blonde girl; had Seneca met her before?

"I was worried," The girl said again. She was rubbing some sort of ointment on Seneca's arm, and the young girl only just stifled a scream at the sight of the large, pus-filled, red lumps that covered her skin. Peering down at her legs, she saw that those limbs were also peppered with the ugly lumps, "It's lucky neither of us were allergic to bees,"

That's when it all came rushing back. Her plan on the hill to snag a caring, older ally who would protect her. Candace falling for the trick and coming to her aid. The bees. The pain. The last thing she could remember was the grassy floor rushing up to meet her. She supposed that Candace was the right person to use as a protector.

"Where did you get that?" Seneca managed to croak. Her throat was raw and her lips were dry, she thirsted for water yet she felt too weak to speak again. Candace scowled at the question, as if it were a great nuisance.

"I got it from a girl," Candace said, the scowl turning into an ugly snarl, "Her name was Liberty. She saved us. Well, she saved me. Refused to save you, don't know why. Kept saying you fell in the middle and she wouldn't do anything about it,"

Seneca winced as another flash came through her mind; Candace arguing loudly with a pale blonde girl. Had that girl been Liberty?

"She insisted that I sleep and she keep watch," Candace continued as she moved from Seneca's arm down to her revolting legs, "Eventually, I gave in. But I managed to swipe the cream before she left. When I woke up, she had left. Weird girl, she was. But she saved my life, I guess,"

Seneca wished she had the strength to speak right now, because then she would be able to tell Candace what an idiot she was? How could she just let that girl watch over her sleep? She could have killed them both! A smaller part of her mind told her that she had stupidly put her trust in Candace in a similar fashion, but somehow, it felt different.

Seneca managed to make a croaking sound, and Candace's head suddenly shot up with wide-eyes, "Oh my god! Water, I forgot!"

She abandoned soothing the pain on her burning legs and dashed for a nearby bag, scooping a bottle of water out and fumbling with the cap, "Liberty left this behind. Weird, huh? I wonder why. Anyways, drink up!"

Seneca spluttered as Candace tipped the water into the younger girls open mouth. She rolled over despite the pain in her legs and spewed a translucent liquid all over the metal floor.

"Oh!" Candace cried, "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"It's fine, Candy," Seneca said, remembering the ridiculous nickname from before. If this plan was going to work, she needed to keep up that innocent, little girl act for a little longer. She pulled the bottle from Candace's trembling hand and brought it to her dry lips.

The relief was overwhelming, and as Candace began rubbing the cream on her final injured leg, Seneca let out an involuntary moan of satisfaction. She drained the bottle without remorse and tossed it aside carelessly.

"Do we have any food?" Seneca asked sweetly. Candace nodded, finishing up on the final leg and hurrying over to her bag. The red welts were shrinking remarkably quickly, the arm Candace had been working on when she woke up was almost back to normal.

Candace returned with what looked like a cold chicken leg. Since when did they allow the tributes such amazing food. She took the leg and dug in greedily, the greasy skin tasted like heaven on her tongue. She has only been in the arena for a day, how would she survive with only crackers in a few days time?

"Thanks for saving me, Candy," Seneca said between bites with a voice so sweet it almost made her sick. Candace's face lit up brightly at the praise and turned back to her bag. Seneca's sickly smile turned into a darker smirk the moment the girl's back was turned. Really, some people were so easy to manipulate. Now all she has to do is sit back and enjoy the ride.

 **Yvette Macura - District Eleven**

Yvette awoke to a jingling sound she never thought she would hear in her life. Her eyes shot open, and she found herself staring at a wide eyed, and shirtless, Osborne, who watched as a silver canister floated lightly down towards the sleeping form of Ryland.

Ryland jerked awake the moment the capsule touched the floor beside his head, sitting bolt upright as if he had just been harshly stung.

"What is it?" He cried, arms swiping out and slashing through an imaginary attacker. Osborne just laughed at the boy, while Yvette found herself grinning weakly. She was still unsure if she could trust these boys, afterall, Osborne seemed quite ready to decapitate her with his axe. But after sitting up with the boys and talking into the early hours of the morning, she could not help but feel safe with them. Yet at the same time, that doubt still festered somewhere within.

Osborne was like an older brother; the only difference being that Yvette could actually appreciate how handsome he actually was. She found herself staring at his muscular chest as he laughed at the disoriented Ryland, only to flush and quickly look away when he caught her staring.

"Who's this for?" Ryland said, picking up the canister and staring at it as if it were an alien artifact.

"I think it's yours, kid," Osborne said. Yvette giggled as Ryland scowled; she found the interactions between the two very amusing. Ryland picked up the canister and unscrewed the lid, only to drop it in shock as he peered inside the metal.

"What is it?" Yvette asked, only to immediately regret it. What if it was private? He might not have wanted to share, and now Yvette has pushed him to reveal it's contents. Why was she so thoughtless.

Ryland didn't answer, instead he reached into the canister and pulled out a small, yet fancy looking sketchbook. The cover sparkled in the light cast down from flaring bulbs above, and the binder looked as if it were made of gold. There was also a note attached to the front of it.

"You always told me you wanted a sketchbook to carry around with you wherever you went," Ryland read aloud, his voice croaking, "I'm sorry it took me so long to buy you one. Love Dad,"

Ryland held the book in shaky hands, his eyes glistening with tears. Osborne shot an uncomfortable look at Yvette, only to appear dissapointed when she mirrored the expression. Comforting the emotional has never been a strong suit of the girls.

But after seeing Osborne's obvious discomfort, Yvette detached herself from the tangle of cloth she had splayed out on the teacher's desk and padded her way over to the spot on the floor where Ryland sat cross-legged, staring intently at the book.

"He'd buy me anything, you know," Ryland said weakly as Yvette sat down beside him, "My family was rich, and my parents spoilt me stupid. But the sketchbook was always the one thing my dad refused to buy for me. He hated my interest in art. He wanted me to be more manly, I think. I guess I never will live up to his expectations,"

Yvette shifted uncomfortably, "But he's sent you one now. Doesn't that mean he's proud of you?"

Ryland didn't answer. Instead he hung his head low and whimpered. Yvette winced as a tear hit the cover of the book. Oh God, she screwed it up again.

She didn't stand up and back away, but she didn't trust herself to speak again. Instead, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

It was curious, how quickly relationships inside the arena can develop. She has only known these boys for just over twelve hours, yet she feels closer to both than any of the friends she had back home. Not that she had any friends back home.

They sat like that for a while, with Ryland crying over the book while Yvette rubbed awkward circles into his shoulder. Eventually, moved closer and laid his head on her shoulder. Eventually, the depressing fog that had settled over the classroom was broken by a slam.

Two heads shot up and whipped around to find Osborne standing next to one of the filing cabinets on the right side of the room with a sheepish look on his face.

"Sorry kid. Didn't mean to interrupt your little heartfelt moment over there," He said with a smile. Yvette thought the words may have been a little harsh, but to her surprise, Ryland laughed. Why couldn't she be that charismatic?

"What are you doing?" Ryland asked, his voice cracking as he wiped at his eyes.

"Exploring," Osborne said as he pulled open the middle drawer flicking his fingers through the files, "Most of these are empty, though,"

"What kind of stuff do you draw?" Yvette asked slowly, turning back to face Ryland as Osborne became immersed in his searching. Ryland sighed and looked down at his book.

"Scenery, mostly. Things I find pretty. People, sometimes," He said, a frown creeping onto his face as if he were holding something back.

"Did they send anything to draw with?" Yvette asked. Ryland peered into the canister and shook his head, raising an eyebrow as Yvette face lit up.

"Well, it's lucky I have something," She said, jumping to her feet. She dashed back to the teacher's desk and yanked open one of the drawers. Inside sat a packet of coloured pencils and a byro; alongside a number of other stationery supplies, most of which she scooped up with cupped hands.

She ran back to Ryland with an enormous smile, it was ridiculous how excited she was just to help. Maybe her enthusiasm would scare the boy away, but it had been so long since she had a friend. She wanted to do everything she could to make Ryland like her.

He appeared stunned as she dropped the stationary into his lap, and for a moment she feared he would reject her offering or start crying again. Instead, his face stretched into a wide grin as he peered up at Yvette with sparkling eyes.

"Thankyou!" He said, "Thank You so much!"

"It's really nothing," Yvette said with a blush, scratching her back nervously, "I found them before you guys caught me. It's like they were waiting for you to find them,"

"Do you mind if I draw you?" He said suddenly, and then flushed redder than she had, "I mean, I'd like to draw you both. Even if we only know each other for a few days. If I ever make it out of here, I want something to remember each and every person who helped me by,"

"Y-yeah. Sure," Yvette said meekly, sitting down on one of the school desks behind her, "Do I need to pose, or?"

"No, I can usually draw from memory as long as it's fresh," He said, but he did not open the book. Instead, he continued to stare down at it in awe.

"And I thought the old tests were creepy," Osborne suddenly gasped from the filing cabinet. He was holding a yellow file with a stack of papers inside, as she watched the boy shuffle through them, his face slowly lost colour and his bright smile faded into a terrified frown, "I think you guys may want to have a look at these,"

Yvette met Rylands eyes briefly, and was relieved to find her concern of her brown mirrored in his green. She had been told many times in the past, from caring teachers and her grandfather, that she worried too much about things that didn't matter. She was often advised to just go with the flow. But what if that flow carried her into ragged waters from which she couldn't escape? No, to Yvette it was safer to fight and question the current at every turn.

Together, they stood and moved to the top draw of the cabinet which remained open. Crouching down, fear swelled in her chest upon seeing the labelled files. Each were branded with one of twenty-three names. Varick Lamare. Willow Drake. Ivy McKinnon. She continued to read until she found her own, a file labelled Yvette Macura.

She pulled the file from the draw with shaky hands as Ryland withdrew his own. The front page had nothing but her full name, Yvette Ember Macura, her age, 16, the names of her parents, and a photograph of her. The picture was one of her most recent school photos; her hair was terrible in the photo, she had woken late that morning which also resulted in heavy bags weighing down her eyes.

There were seven other pages behind it, and as Yvette began to flick through them, the shaking in her hands became more violent.

 _Yvette Ember Macura was born on the 17th of November to Willow and Norse Macura in the District Eleven hospital. The child showed signs of autism at an early age, however later tests disproved her parents fears. Yvette was a lazy child, refusing to even attempt walking until she was four years old. At this point, her younger sister, Terrasse Willow Macura, was birthed into the world._

 _Fed up with their child, Willow and Norse tried a different approach by ignoring the child until she learnt to do things for her own. This method faltered after the girl attempted to walk too fast without proper practice and fell, smashing her head on the corner of a wooden table. The injury required six stitches._

Yvette reached up to touch the scar from the accident. How did the gamemakers know about this? The recollection of her life became more and more horrifying as she read on, accurate descriptions of outings and thoughts she had had when alone where all recorded here on paper. How long have they been watching.

 _At the age of twelve, Yvette sunk into a stalkerish mindset after she fell hard for an elder boy, Ethan Marks. This obsession did not exclude theft, breaking and entering, and photographs taken without the boys consent. One particular incident involved Yvette hiding in a linen closet while the Marks family sat down to dinner. To this day, they do not know the girl was there. This obsession ceased the moment Terrasse Macura passed away._

Yvette dropped the file in horror, the papers spilling across the floor and sliding under the nearby desks. There's no way they could have known that. How could they have known that? She had never told a soul about her obsession with the boy in the grade above her. She hadn't even written it in her diary. The photographs she had taken, well, she burnt those long ago. She burnt them the night after her sister died. The death that had been entirely her fault.

Osborne and Ryland appeared to be having similar reactions. Osborne was no longer reading, his chest was heaving and his hands were crumpling the paper in his hands with white knuckles. Ryland was crying again, slumped against the wall as his eyes darted back and forth across the page.

For a moment, Osborne's eyes slipped down to one of the sheets that Yvette had spilled near his feet. With a lurch, the girl dropped to her knees and began retrieving them. As she moved closer, Osborne took a step backwards, clutching his own file to his chest.

Yvette couldn't let them find out. They would hate her if they did. They would think her a murderer, just like everybody else. Not to mention the fact that she was once an insane stalker. No, she had to get rid of these files.

"We need to burn these," Osborne said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts, "Nobody-nobody can know what's in here,"

Yvette only nodded meekly. Ryland appeared to have not heard him. As Osborne turned away and shoved the folder into the depths of his bag, Yvette found that festering doubt in her gut flaring once again. If she thought her own secrets were bad enough to burn, what exactly was Osborne Seatone hiding?

 **Phelan Krouse - District Eight**

Phelan was bored. Of course, in the arena that wasn't actually a bad thing. In fact, he should be thankful that he hasn't run into any axe wielding maniacs. Yet he still found himself longing to run into somebody, hell, he would even take that axe wielding maniac if it meant something to do.

Some of the rooms were interesting enough. Last night, he had briefly passed through a beautiful beach that overlooked the sunset. He hadn't stayed; at the time he had been worried that the intense beauty of the sinking sun was nothing more than a trick, designed to entrance the viewer so that they would not notice the mutt sneaking up from behind.

Now, he longed to be back there; lounging on the sandy shore and dipping his feet in the water. It was the first time he had ever seen a beach, his family had never been able to afford inter-district travel. Not that Phelan would have ever gone with them if they had travelled; he would rather stay home alone for months on end than be stuck in a car with his parents.

The rooms since then have been nothing more than a series of blank cubes with rusty hatches. Every now and then, one would contain some sort of task that would result in a reward of food or a menial weapon like a knife. A few rooms back, found himself stuck in a maze of loose tiles that would collapse into oblivion if he took a wrong step. He had managed to make it out after a while; with a hefty backpack on his shoulders, but every now and then he would stop walking and carefully tap the tile in front of him. Just in case it fell.

He longed for another room that sparkled with beauty. He was sure there had to be more; why would they have a single room that was so different to the others. He held his fingers crossed as he pushed open his fourteenth hatch of the morning; hoping to find something other than blank white walls on the other side.

"Wish granted," Phelan grunted as the hatch swung open to reveal two people with their backs turned to him. They were standing in the centre of the room, necks hanging low as they stared at something that had captured their attention enough to keep them from noticing Phelan slink into the room.

He crept up on them slowly, right hand pressed against the handle of the knife that was strapped to his belt. Just in case. He had no intention on killing either of these two; a short, skinny boy with a mess of blonde curls and a girl with flowing blonde hair and a single blue streak.

He must have taken one step too loudly, because at once the two figures whipped around and gaped at Phelan with wide eyes. He returned the look as his eyes landed on the boy; he recognized him almost right away. Almost everybody in Panem did; Darcy Retore, the boy who escaped a string of kidnappings that resulted in murder every single time. Except in the case of Darcy.

"I know you," He said stupidly to the boy. The girl frowned, eyes dashing between Darcy and Phelan uneasily. Her hands were concealed behind her back, and Phelan's hand grasped the handle of his knife tighter. If she was concealing a weapon, he couldn't afford to be slow.

"Um, I can't say I remember you," Darcy said, and then flushed red, "At all. I mean, I'm sorry if we once met, I've met quite a few people. Were we good friends?"

Phelan raised an eyebrow, and shot a look at the girl, who stared back at him with a pale face. Phelan sighed, "No, we haven't met. I just know you from television,"

"S-so I don't know you?" Darcy stuttered.

"Nope," Phelan said, popping the P. The girls eyes dropped to where Phelan was fiddling with his knife, and she let out a shriek.

"I hope you aren't planning to use that," She squeaked. Darcy's eyes dropped to the weapon as well, and Phelan's slender fingers froze around the hilt. The two young teenagers backed further away from Phelan, revealing a large, white, marble pedestal as they parted. Atop it sat a large, red button. Darcy and his fried retreated to the other side of the pedestal.

"What is that?" Phelan asked, colour draining from his face. He couldn't help but feel that a mysterious big red button screamed danger. He swallowed loudly as Darcy hovered a small hand over it.

"We don't know," He said. His voice wavered with each word, "But if you don't drop the weapon, I swear I will do it. Push the button, I mean,"

"Darcy!" The girl cried.

"I know what I'm doing, Quinn," The boy hissed. His hand trembled over the button, fingertips only just grazing the gleaming, red surface. Phelan's sharp teeth sunk into the flesh of his tongue as he bit back some kind of retort; did these idiotic children actually think he was about to murder them?

"You don't sound so sure," Phelan snarled, his blue eyes flashing dangerously, "You don't have the guts to push it,"

"I swear I will!" Darcy said, his voice losing its previous nervous energy and picking up a miniscule bout of confidence, "You shouldn't push me. I'm not scared of you,"

"If you weren't scared of me, you wouldn't be threatening me with a stupid button," Phelan growled.

"Drop the knife!"

"Okay!" Phelan hissed. His fingers fumbled with the glasp and unclipped the weapon. It clattered to the floor, shattering the uneasy silence that followed Phelan's acceptance. For good measure, he nudged the knife with his foot and sent it skittering towards the two. Quinn bent a knee and picked up the weapon, examining it carefully before sliding it into a holster on her own belt.

"Good," Darcy said. His hand fell back to his side, fingers curling into a clenched fist. Phelan felt tension he had not known he was building in his shoulders release. He made a gesture with his hands that was supposed to imply 'What now?' but it must have came across as something else, because Quinn suddenly shot forwards and replaced her hand over the button.

"Drop the bag too," She said. Her voice was much stronger and more determined than her companion, who now appeared taken aback by her threat, "Toss it over here and leave,"

"I'm not going to ' _toss it over there and leave'_ ," He said, voice raising in pitch to mimic her girlish tone. Maybe the method of torment was an act of childishness, but it hit it's target none the less, Phelan smirked as the girls face flushed red, "I think I will be going on my way though,"

"No!" Quinn cried, stamping her foot like a cranky child, "If you do anything but take off that bag, I will push this button,"

"What are you doing?" Darcy hissed, "He's not stupid enough to give us the bag,"

"He'd be stupid not to," Quinn growled. For a thin girl with the eyes of a baby deer, Phelan had to admit; she pulled of the intimidation tactic very well.

"Apparently I'm stupid either way," Phelan snapped, "I'm not going to be threatened by a little girl and her pussy boyfriend,"

"Well, it looks like you are," Quinn said, "So just give me the damn bag,"

"We don't know what it does!" Darcy whispered harshly, "It could kill us all!"

"Why is okay for you to use it as a threat and not me?" Quinn argued.

"Because I wasn't actually going to do it!" Darcy said, throwing his hands into the air.

"She's not going to do it either," Phelan snarled, his blood beginning to boil, "She can't be that stupid,"

"I am going to do it!" She said, "So give me the damn bag,"

"I refuse,"

"You can't just refuse!"

"I think I just did!"

"Quinn! He's not going to hand it over!" Darcy said, weakly tugging on her sleeve.

"Maybe he would have if you hadn't told him you weren't going to press the button!"

"I wouldn't have done it anyway," Phelan said, "So go on, press the button,"

"This is your last chance," Quinn growled, "Give me the bag,"

"Press the button, you little slut." A smile carved it's way onto his face as he saw the words hit home. The girl's eyes widened and her hand slackened on the button in shock; as if Phelan had just mumbled an unforgivable curse. But then, her expression changed. A sickly sweet smile paved it's way through her lips, and her eyebrows raised in a manner that looked almost pitying.

"Oh Phelan, this is just sad," Quinn said mockingly. He was taken aback by not only the tone of her sentence, but the use of his name; how had she known? "I mean, I know you're upset because your real mummy and daddy didn't want you, but there's no need to take it out on us,"

"You bitch," Phelan snarled. His nails dug sharply into his palm as his eyes prickled with the threat of leaking tears. There's no way she could have known that. How did she know that?

"And now you're a disappointment to your second family!" Quinn said happily, "Oh, how much you must loathe yourself. But don't worry, you won't have to disappoint anybody again once I press this button,"

"You're not pressing that button," Phelan shouted, he now spoke with wild and raging emotions, "I'm not letting this dumb slut and her bitch of a boyfriend threaten me!"

"Don't call him a bitch!" Quinn protested.

"Oh, but he is a bitch!" Phelan said, now taking on that sickeningly sweet tone Quinn had used as torment before, "I mean, look at him? He looks like he's going to cry! He must be really weak after that kidnapping. Didn't they say they only fed him dog food? Do you miss that, kid? Do you miss sleeping in that little cage and having that bad old man touch you? You probably deserved everything you got, you worthless sack of-"

Phelan didn't get to finish his sentence. He knew he had gone too far, yet he couldn't make himself stop. Quinn threw herself at him with an animalistic scream. Her knee collided with Phelan's chest and sent him sprawling; he only just had enough time to deliver a harsh kick to her stomach as she attempted to pin him down. She let out a groan as the wind was forced out of her, stumbling back until her back hit the pedestal and she hit the floor on her behind.

Darcy was crying now; whether it was because of Phelan's harsh words of the horrific nature of the scene unfolding out before him, it was difficult to tell. Phelan pulled himself up and pushed himself towards Quinn, lashing out with two large hands and wrapping them around her throat.

She squealed and thrashed beneath his weight, but he was much heavier than the scrawny girl. His hands tightened around her neck; he felt her smaller ones pummelling at his broad chest. He couldn't help but smile down at her. He had had no intention on ever laying a finger on the girl, she had brought this on herself.

Just when Phelan thought she was going to go limp and pass out, pain flared in hip. Phelan screamed and let go of the girl, falling backwards and grabbing at the now torn and bleeding flesh. Quinn wiped a glob of spit from her mouth and scowled at Phelan from the base of the pedestal, her left hand clenched around the handle of the knife; the blade of which was now dripping blood.

"Oh my god," A voice cried. Three heads turned and whipped around as a fourth person entered the tiny room. Phelan recognised him from one of the photo's in his original room; Brody Lewis. He was staring at shock on the two on the floor, eyes flicking between Phelan's sliced hip and Quinn's purple throat.

"Get out of here!" Darcy cried suddenly, "He's insane!"

"I'm insane?" Phelan hissed through teeth clenched so tightly they felt as if they were going to shatter, "You're the one who threatened me with a button!"

"What button?" Brody asked.

"The big red button in the centre of the room!" Phelan growled, "Are you blind?"

"I wasn't going to press it!" Darcy countered.

"I was," Quinn croaked.

"What does it do?" Brody asked. Nobody spoke as Quinn stood, her face red and her eyes wild.

"I don't know," She said eerily, eyes suddenly widening with glee, "But why don't we find out?"

Phelan screamed and threw his hands in front of his face as she slammed a fist down over the button. There was a loud click, followed by an even louder crackle of static electricity. Phelan heard Quinn scream, and he opened his eyes just in time to watch as Darcy shot across the room faster than a bullet, hurtling away from the pedestal and crashing into the wall behind.

"Apparently it does that," Phelan choked out as Quinn rushed to Darcy's side. Brody shot Phelan an irritated look and moved to crouch beside the fallen boy. Phelan growled as he sat up, poorly dealing with the pain in his hip as he glared at the two fawning over the fallen boy.

"Oh, Darcy!" Quinn whimpered, reaching out to clasp his limp hand, "This wasn't supposed to happen, I never thought-"

She stopped speaking as she wrapped both of her hands around his, only to shriek and yank them backwards as if he had burnt her. Darcy's eyes flew open, and he shot into a sitting position hands trembling and eyes darting in every which direction.

"What happened? Where am I? What did it do? Is everyone okay?" He said. His head flicked about with every word, it was like he was watching a multi-platform tennis match, "Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine!" Quinn said, pulling away quickly as Darcy tried to reach for her again, "But you're not. The button released this weird bolt of energy that hit you and-"

"You're okay now," Brody said reassuringly, pressing a hand to Darcy's bare arm, only to yank it away with a hiss of pain.

"What?" Darcy groaned, looking down at his arm in horror.

"Nothing," Brody said, rubbing his hand vigorously, "You shocked me,"

"You shocked me too," Quinn said, looking down at her hands. Phelan thought he could see black soot coating the open palms. While the three tributes were so conveniently distracted, Phelan seized the opportunity to escape unnoticed. Breathing heavily and wincing harshly as he bit back shrieks of pain, Phelan began to creep back towards the hatch door he had clambered through before. A few minutes ago, he had been wishing for more excitement to cure his boredom. Now, he would give anything for that bored feeling.

His hands had barely grazed the rusty wheel of the hatch when Darcy gave a loud shout. Phelan risked a look back and sniffled when he saw three sets of eyes staring at him. Brody's were strong and emotionless, Quinn's were specked with crystal tears, and Darcy's were ripe with uncertainty as he spoke, "Where are you going?"

"Leaving," Phelan croaked. One of his hands pressed into the wound on his side. It didn't feel very deep, Quinn has slashed at his flesh rather than stabbed, "Before you can do anymore damage,"

"Not with that bag, you're not," Darcy said, shakily climbing to his feet. Phelan swore; why did they won't this bag so desperately? He had risked his life for it, he deserved what lay inside, "Hand it over,"

"And if I refuse?" Phelan asked.

"I electrocute you," Darcy said, with such a serious voice that Phelan through back his head and howled with laughter.

"You're going to shock me with a little static electricity?" He said, "Ooo, I am really scared!"

Darcy didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room silently towards the laughing Phelan. Brody and Quinn followed him uncertainly; and despite the tears still running down her face, he could tell that Quinn was suppressing a smile.

Phelan did not even get the chance to make a snarky comment when Darcy's hands grabbed for his face. The shock was not at all like static, the pulses of electricity that ran through Phelan's body was so painful that he began to scream and thrash. It was horrible, it was agonizing; and it only last about three seconds before Darcy was gone.

He was groaning and holding his face; head tilted backwards and his nose pointed towards the ceiling. Phelan's knee was throbbing, he must have smashed it into Darcy's face. While the boy was distracted by his own pain, Phelan leapt up and yanked open the hatch. His entire body was twitching with electricity, but he had no choice but to power through as he shoved himself back through the hatch.

He landed on the other side chest first, groaning loudly as his hip scraped the cold floor. A cold and cruel laugh echoed around the room above him, and suddenly something wet and sticky dripped down into Phelan's hair.

Reaching up and touching it, the boy retched as he realised his hand was covered in dirty saliva. And then he realised there was a pair of boots right in front of his face. Slowly, his head tilted upwards; following the frame of the tall and lean body until he was staring right into the grinning face of Grant Gino.

"Well, Wolf, look what we have here!" He said to the snarling and drooling boy who crouched at Grant's hip, "Breakfast wasn't that hard to find after all!"

 **Willow Drake - District One**

The ground beneath Willow was more comfortable than the bed she had slept in at home. The springy grass supported her weight effortlessly, and despite the harsh sun shining down on her sleeping form, she found herself wanting to snuggle deeper into the earth rather than wake up.

She had no blanket, nor a pillow, yet she was still warm and toasty. Something heavy was pressed into her side; an object that radiated warmth throughout the sleeping girl. Yet, no matter the comfort, Willow could not force herself to slip back into a slumber. Grey eyes fluttered open to find a thin arm draped across her chest.

Those eyes followed the slender arm towards it's source; a sleeping boy who had found it reasonable to cuddle up into her side. She didn't recognize him at first; in fact, for the first few moments, she lay staring at the boys peaceful resting face, trying to work out how she had ended up asleep in the middle of a grassy room.

Then she saw the bandage over his shoulder. It was stained dark red, white tainted by the copious amount of blood that had seeped from a wound carved from the blade of a throwing knife. A throwing knife that she had inflicted upon him.

Her left hand flew to her hip, fingers closing around nothing but air. Her last knife had been the one to hit the boy's shoulder. The rest were gone. Her eyes drifted to the large bundle of fabric beside the boys sleeping form. Could he have stored the knife in there?

Sitting up slowly, his arm that had been pressing down across her chest fell limply to her lap. Annoyed, she grasped his wrist and threw the limb back to him; only to have her own arm harshly yanked with it.

"No," She whispered as her grey eyes fell on the metal cuffs that joined their wrists together, "What the fuck?"

The last thing she could remember was drowning; the swirl of a current much stronger than her dragging her into the depths of a whirlpool, further and further away from the surface until she was so deep that light could no longer penetrate through the fog of darkness.

Had this kid saved her? Had he hauled her from the deadly whirlpool, bandaged himself up, and then handcuffed himself to her? That didn't make sense whatsoever.

"What the fuck?" She repeated, a little louder this time, this time pulling back her palm and slapping the sleeping boy across the face; trying her best to ignore the feeling of utter pleasure she got from the pained expression he gave upon waking up.

He was up in a sitting position the moment his eyes flicked open; clutching his reddening cheek and looking at Willow in horror. He scrambled away from her; or at least attempted to. The hand that was connected to Willow was held firmly in place, and he let out a sharp hiss of pain as strain was placed on his shoulder.

"Let me go!" He said, his voice panicky and not at all like the cocky and irritating boy that had invited her for a cup of tea while she hunted him down, "Unlock this thing,"

"Me?" Willow snarled, "Why would I want to handcuff myself to you?"

"I-" His voice faltered, raising his wrist lightly and inspecting the cuts where the metal cuffs had dug into his skin, "Maybe you really wanted that cup of tea?"

"What?" Willow blinked, and then she scowled, "Oh, I understand. This is your idea of a joke!" She raised her cuffed hand as an emphasis, "Ha Ha. Very funny. Now unlock this so I can kill you,"

"Hm, tempting," The boy said, scratching his chin and feigning thought, "But I think I'd like to chose life handcuffed to you than death,"

"I could kill you right now," Willow growled.

"Not if you want to drag a dead body around for the rest of the game," The boy said, and then sighed, "I really didn't do this. The last thing I remember is passing out in that whirlpool that YOU pushed me into,"

"And I'd do it again," Willow snapped, "If you didn't do this, then who did?"

The boy shrugged and peered down at his shoes. Willow sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead, noticing for the first time that both her skin and clothes were bone dry. How long had they been asleep for?

"Hey, what's that?" The boy said suddenly, climbing to his feet. Willow was caught off guard by the gesture and pulled up alongside him, scowling until she saw the golden plaque at their feet. It was pressed into the face of a rock that jutted out of the grassy hill, engraved with dark words that read:

 _If you wish to stay alive, you must work together._

 _Follow the path of red, if you seek to break the tether._

"No, no, no," Willow groaned, sinking back down until she was kneeling in the grass, "I can't be tethered to you,"

"Come on, it will be fun!" Heath said, pulling on the handcuffs lightly, "The two of us, against the world! The two musketeers! Willow and Heath, partners in crime!"

So Heath was his name, "There were three musketeers,"

"No, I'm pretty sure there's only two of us," Heath said with a frown.

"You know, maybe this won't be so bad," Willow said with a cruel smile, "I get to have my own, portable punching bag,"

Just to make her point, Willow stood and delivered a harsh punch to the boys gut. He let out a groan and crumpled to the ground, pulling the white haired girl down on top of him. She let out a yelp as she fell, hitting his back only to fall harshly on the rock that held the plaque.

"Karma's a bitch, isn't it?" Heath groaned as Willow cried out in pain. The pair took a while to untangle themselves; the cuffs created a connection that made standing up feel like a harsh game of twister, once they were finally on two feet and seperatred, Heath spoke again, "Let's just find out how to break these,"

"Break them? Are you an idiot!" Willow hissed, "The sign said to follow the path of red,"

"Oh. I couldn't read it," Heath answered, tapping his right eye.

"You need glasses?" Willow asked, and then grabbed him harshly by the ear before he could answer, "Don't answer that. Let's just go,"

But Heath was no longer listening. He was screaming and thrashing, and as Willow pulled her hand back, she felt sick as a chunk of flesh came away with it. She looked up and almost spewed at the sight of Heath's mangled ear; part of which had just come away with her hand. How had she forgotten the injury she had caused?

The mangled flesh reminded her of Varick Lamare. Suddenly she was back in by the cornucopia, laying crumpled on the floor and watching in horror as that spearhead erupted through the centre of his chest. She remembered the one droplet that hit her face. She remembered who disgusting the scene was.

"Come on, we are going to get this over as soon as we can," Willow said, yanking Heath back to his feet. The boy was still sobbing, mischievous smirk gone.

"How do you know which way to go?" He sniffed. Willow rolled her eyes; of course, he was trying not to cry.

"Because, idiot, look at the colours around the hatches," She said. Each of the hatches were surrounded by an arch of flowers. Red, Purple, Yellow, and Blue. As much as Willow hated to admit it; they were really quite beautiful, "Come on,"

She pulled him towards the hatch surrounded by a flurry of red flowers, the sobbing boy reluctantly following. Not that he ever had a choice. Walking was difficult; the two could not even time their steps over this very short distance; every few seconds, Willow's arm would either be yanked backwards or forwards. What was going to happen if they needed to fight? Knowing this kid; he would try to hide instead of brawl. That was going to be a problem.

"You know, one good thing came out of this," Heath said with a small smirk as Willow opened the hatch, continuing as Willow raised an eyebrow, "It's not every day you wake up handcuffed to a pretty girl,"

Willow resisted the urge to punch him again.

 **Quinn Hyland - District Four**

Quinn Hyland had seen so many terrible things in her life. She had once seen a boy swarmed and bashed by his entire class when she was seven. At twelve, she saw a girl raped by a drunken boy who was uncharacteristically aggressive. At thirteen, Quinn herself was stabbed in the stomach and tossed into the gutter like a piece of garbage. Yet all of those instances appeared to pale in comparison to the inhumane sight of the savage boy with a rope wrapped around his neck, being set upon Phelan Krouse like a rabid dog sent to fetch a tennis ball.

Grant Gino laughed; it was cruel and cold, the laugh of somebody who relished in the idea of somebody suffering at his feet. As Quinn watched Wolf circle Phelan Krouse like a cat stalking its prey, squished between Brody Lewis and Darcy, the most disturbing thing yet about the situation was the question of what made Grant Gino this way?

How could she be so cold? So nosy? Why was it that her strongest urge was not to slip away unnoticed or surge forward to save a life, but to creep around and follow Grant Gino until she had obtained the information she needed.

The photographs had provided little evidence on Grant; in fact, he had a minuscule amount compared to his twenty-three peers. Even the Wolf had more pictures; blurred images of a wild boy scampering through the forest. Like an animal.

Quinn was snatched from her world of speculation as Darcy's bare forearm brushed hers, sending a surge of pain and a crackle of electricity through the limb. She let out an involuntary shriek of pain and threw herself sideways; shouldering Brody roughly aside and catching the attention of not only Grant Gino, but the disgusting creature that once was a normal little boy turned savage.

Things appeared to happen in slow motion from that moment forwards. Grant appeared to stunned to move for the stretch of three seconds; apparently unaware of the audience that had been watching his display of inhumanity.

Wolf was no longer circling and preparing to pounce on the cowering Phelan: who surged forwards to seize his opportunity to escape death's clammy hands by shakily standing, one hand clutching his hip, covering the stain of blood that seeped through the fabric from the wound Quinn herself had inflicted.

Wolf lunged as Phelan stumbled; Brody grabbed at Quinn as Darcy screamed. Brody pulled Quinn down on top of him as the wild boy latched onto Darcy, dirty nails slashing through clean clothing. Darcy fell with Wolf on top of him, yellow teeth snapping around loose air inches from Darcy's throat. Quinn heard Grant give a cry of protest; trying to call Wolf off, but his order was cut short as the hatch door swung closed, sealing Phelan and Grant on one side; and leaving Quinn, Brody, and Darcy trapped with Wolf.

Brody threw Quinn off of him and moved to help Darcy, who was pinned beneath Wolf who padded up the boys chest with his teeth bared. But Brody was too late to do much of anything, as Darcy appeared to have a weapon of his own.

Wolf screeched as his dirt encrusted hand came into contact with Darcy's throat; the sound was so high-pitched and human like that Quinn would have never believed it came from the boy had she not heard it for herself.

Wolf threw himself backwards, hitting the floor on his back and curling up into a tight ball. Quinn stood slowly; using Brody's shoulder to steady herself. The shared a confused exchange before stepping towards the shaking boy. Darcy was sitting with his back pressed up against the button pedestal. His chest was heaving as he sucked in deep breaths, right hand absentmindedly rubbing his throat as he stared at the cowering boy at his feet.

A sound emitted from the curled up form of Wolf; and it took Quinn a moment to realize he was crying. Not the whimper of a kicked puppy, but the full-fledged sobs of a truly broken boy. A human boy.

It was at that moment the hatch behind them swung open again. On the other side stood not Grant Gino, but Phelan Krouse.

He was panting; his face was pale. In his hands, he held a long, metal pole; the one Grant had possessed a mere minute ago. His eyes were wild, and for a moment, Quinn almost pitied the boy. Suddenly, he toppled forwards. He hit the floor face first, no longer moving as Quinn spotted the handle of a screwdriver sticking out of his leg.

Brody rushed to Phelan's side, whereas Quinn rushed towards the open hatch before it could close. On the otherside, Grant lay splayed out on the floor in the shape of a star. There was blood splattered across the floor around him; yet none of it appeared to come from the boy himself. For a moment, Quinn thought he was dead, and she feared not for his life, but for the story she would never know. And then he saw his chest rise.

"Darcy," Quinn suddenly said, looking back at the petrified boy, "Check his bag for rope. I'll go and grab our prisoner,"

 **Kelani Richards - District Ten**

The very last thing Kelani ever thought she would admit to herself was that she had slept in comfort inside the Hunger Games arena. Currently, she laid with her body splayed over the cushions of a luxurious red couch. One leg was draped over the arm of the lounge, the other curled up against her curved yet still comfortable body. She had even found a fluffy pillow resting on the sofa as if waiting for her to lay her head on it; surpassing the lumpy mass that dared call itself a pillow that sat in her bag.

Maybe it was a stupid idea to fall asleep out in the open; ripe and ready to have her throat slashed open by a maniac. Yet the thrill of it all was what made the option so enticing. With a yawn, she stretched and swung her bare legs over the edge of the couch, fiddling with her messy ponytail as she settled into a sitting position, as casually as she would have if she had awoken on the couch back home.

But she wasn't back home. In fact, the room she was in was farthest from it. It was luxurious, to say the least, appearing as if it should have belonged in a mansion. In fact, the place was a mansion. An entire floor spanned the space of this enormous room; including not only a lounge room, where she currently lay, but a kitchen, a study, a dining room, a sitting room, a bathroom and an enormous library that was more of a labyrinth with books. Honestly, the place was so large that Kelani had a hard time believing she was the only one who had discovered it. She had already learnt that there was more than four hatches acting as gateways to the room; in fact, there was close to a dozen.

Kelani stood abruptly; dark blanket falling from her shoulders, and quickly paced across the room towards the hallway. The mansion was by no means warm; her bare legs were freezing and the black dressing gown she had donned did little to keep out the cold.

The hallway was enormous, large enough to fit two cars standing end to end. A long, red rug ran the length of the floor, connecting one pristine steel hatch to another. Kelani peered nervously up at the large chandelier that swung ominously high above; yet slowed instead of speeding up as she passed under. The sharp rise in her heartbeat was enough to bring a smile to her face.

It was curious, how dabbling in dangers that could kill her excited her so. But with no drugs or alcohol; fear was the only thing that could give her that rush that she lived off of. One day, this addiction might kill her. But that day was not today.

With a newfound spring in her step, Kelani happily skipped through the large arch that opened into the kitchen. The place was nowhere as large as the library, yet it was still bigger than Kelani's entire house. Flicking on the coffee pot, Kelani swung around to the large fridge. Tapping in two simple words on the keypad, she pulled open the door and found a tall, glass of orange juice sitting on the shelf waiting for her.

With a smile, she placed the glass down on the marble kitchen, ignoring the small portion that sloshed over the side. She moved towards the extensive stovetop, complete with fourteen hotplates, more than Kelani could ever imagine using. Like with the fridge, her fingers danced across the keypad in front of the stove, she watched with glee as one of the hotplates rose from within the counter; a frying pan sitting on top with six strips of bacon sizzling away inside.

While the majority of the mansion was in old fashion, with lounges and lamps that would have been used a hundred years ago. But the kitchen was equipped with technology used in the present day. Not in a home as simple and small as Kelani's, but she had seen this type of fridge used by celebrities on television. Now it was like she was one of them.

As another hotplate rose with a pan cooking a dish of scrambled eggs, Kelani thought of all of those in the arena who may not be enjoying the luxury she is. She then thought of her mother, and how right now she would be watching with narrowed eyes from her ratty sofa while her husband was out working. Kelani's fingers ran over the scar on her nose and sneered. Sucks to be her.

She first heard the music halfway through breakfast. Her fork, which was currently piled high with scrambled eggs, froze inches from her mouth. The song was slow and eery, drifting through the empty halls of the home and sending chills down Kelani's spine.

Slowly, she placed down the fork, barely noticing the lump of yellow that splattered across the countertop. Sliding from her stool, she crept across the cold tiles towards the hall. The tune sounded like a slow version of pop goes the weasel; and this fear was so different to the thing the adrenaline junkie was used to. This fear was more like terror.

The moment she stepped out into the hall, the music stopped, plunging the large mansion into a silence that was somehow worse than when the song was playing. She stood, for a moment, in the gateway between her sanctuary and the unknown. Waiting for the music to start playing again. Waiting for an intruder to leap out of their hiding spot and attack. But nothing happened; and now with an uneasy feeling weighing down on her shoulders, she returned to her breakfast which no longer felt so inviting.

The music came again as she was drying off from her bath. She had opted for the tub instead of the shower for that very reason. She didn't want to be ambushed because she couldn't hear over the sound of rushing water. But the music had stopped by the time she had pulled on her pants; there was no way she was going to be murdered naked. Again, she stood awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, staring out into the empty hallway with that feeling that she was being watched now feeling heavier than before on her shoulders.

The third time she heard that eerie song, she was back on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. This time, she was not going to be slow. Slamming the steaming drink down on the coffee table, she dashed from the lounge room and out into the hall. The music sounded as if it were coming from everywhere, bouncing off of every surface with the sole purpose to making Kelani feel uneasy.

Jogging back and forth down the hall, she eventually determined which room the music was coming from. Slowly, she crept into the study with her weapon in hand; a curved sword that she had no idea how to use.

And there it was. Sitting neatly on the centre of the desk was a small, pink, music box. A ballerina sprouted from inside the container, spinning gently as pop goes the weasel slowly echoed around the room; far louder than what should have been possible from such a tiny object. Unable to bear the music any longer, Kelani lunged forwards the slammed the lid of the box shut, silencing the dreadful song just in time to hear an ominous smashing sound from the living room.

Whipping around, Kelani dashed from the study with her curved sword held out defensively in front of her. The hall was empty, and as she crept down towards the living room, she felt as if the eyes in the paintings were following her. Her hand shot to the scar on her nose, and she suddenly wondered what her mother would be thinking right now. Would she be worried? Was she scared that she was going to lose a second child to the arena? Or was she glad? Glad that her reject child was going out the same way her golden boy did; the last reminder of her traumatic past erased forever.

She froze as she stepped through that archway, eyes lingering on the now shattered mug that had sat on the coffee table moments ago, dark liquid sinking into and staining the perfect white rug.

And then she was running. No longer excited; no insane smile on her face. Kelani's face only portrayed a look of utter terror as she sprinted for the nearest hatch. Pop goes the weasel began playing again, this time louder than ever before. It made every hair on Kelani's body stand on end, and she could not help but throw a look of her shoulder with every two steps.

Her hands latched onto the wheel of the hatch before she had even reached it, and with all of her might, she tried to twist it. But the wheel didn't budge. Kelani stumbled away from the hatch, panting, her blood running cold as she came to a horrifying realization. She was trapped. And she wasn't alone.


	7. Day Two: The Monsters of our Past

**Jadira Littler - District Nine**

 _A single beam of sunlight shone through the large paned window, hitting Jadira's back and illuminating the girl like an angel. Heads turned in her direction as she moved slowly down the hall, smiling sweetly and nodding politely at each and every person she came across._

 _It wasn't her beauty that turned heads wherever she went, the girl was far from being attractive, but the simple fact that Jadira Littler was the sweetest girl to ever grace the walls of the District Nine high school._

 _Nobody could deny how kind Jadira Littler really was, it was a quality that many admired and one that even more envied; not one person had a bad thing to say about Jadira. Eyes drifted to the carefully crafted basket she held loosely in her hands, plump and fluffy muffins peeking over the brim of the container._

 _She paused just outside of the office of Felicity Spinnet, a gentle hand raising to knock three times in succession on the History teacher's door. There was the sound of a scramble on the other side, and a few seconds later the wooden door swung backwards to reveal a blotchy eyed woman on the other side._

 _"Good afternoon, Ms. Spinnet," Jadira said, her voice dripping with politeness, "I was terribly sorry to hear about your husband. I know it isn't much, but I brought you a basket of muffins,"_

 _The woman was silent as Jadira held out the basket, smiling innocently at the woman, whos eyes glistened with fresh tears._

 _"They're fresh, I promise. Skipped lunch to make them. I hope you like blueberry,"_

 _"Thankyou," Felicity stuttered, reaching out and taking the basket from the sweet student, who positively beamed at the acceptance, "Thank you, really, Jadira. This means so much,"_

 _"It's really nothing, Miss," Jadira said happily, "I'm just doing what I can. I must be going now, my mother expects me home soon,"_

 _"Oh, well, thank you again." The teacher said as Jadira waved and turned away from the door. Whispers could be heard from lingering students, who eyed Jadira's back as she happily skipped towards the doors._

 _The streets were thick with traffic as Jadira made her way home, and the sidewalk was no exception. Jadira made sure to pleasantly greet each man, woman, and child that passed her. Everybody adored Jadira Littler, it was impossible not to. How could somebody dislike a girl so sweet?_

 _The traffic lessened as Jadira made her way towards the outskirts of the district; buildings became more rundown and the people who passed by barely spared a glance at the girl. Eventually, she was alone, and it was then that she heard the cries of somebody nearby._

 _Nobody else was around to hear it. Only Jadira was there to hear the woman's pleas for help. Peering around the corner of a nearby alley, a terrible sight met her eyes. Three men had surrounded a woman who cowered on the floor, legs tucked against her swelling belly as she tried to protect the kin inside. The men kicked her without remorse, beating her face and body black and blue._

 _Jadira had seen the men before; they worked for The Snake, an infamous drug dealer who hailed from another district. The woman was Jadira's neighbour, a kind young woman who had only recently married her handsome husband._

 _The womans teary eyes met Jadira's as the men continued their assault, and with the last of her strength, she mouthed the word please. But Jadira knew there was no chance of her saving this woman, those who worked for the Snake never left their victims alive._

 _So, Jadira Littler turned her back on the begging woman; who no longer had the strength to even sob. As she retreated across the street, there was no trace of the innocent smile she had worn when she left the school. Now, she only wore a blank slate. An expression of no emotion._

Jadira's face yielded no insight to her thoughts as she peered down at the copious amounts of blood that stained the tiled floor beside the cornucopia. This was not the only splatter, another, smaller pool had gathered around the side of the cornucopia, just outside the mouth. A smear of crimson tainted the pristine metal, as if the person who had died had been sitting up when they were murdered.

She wondered which stain belonged to which person. She had seen their faces last night, Varick Lamare and Nathan Carlyle. Two boys who had both met a gory demise right where she stood. And she felt nothing.

There was no pity. No sorrow. No fear for the boys who had been slaughtered on this very spot. Only the fear that she felt for herself. The fear that she was no worse than those who had murdered the boys.

She remembered the way Felecia Coin's hand had felt as Jadira crushed it beneath her shoe. She had hoped that, when in the moment, she would final feel that guilt for harming another living being. Yet she felt nothing.

She wondered where Felecia was now. Was she still sat in that room, staring at the photographs with that unnerving relaxed expression. Or was she dead? Murdered and taken from this world by a person who was no worse or better than Jadira.

With a heavy sigh, she raised her crossbow and aimed at the target she had set up. It was a large red backpack, sat atop a metal crate that lent against the wall of the cornucopia. With a grunt of effort, she fired a bolt. It sailed a little to the side, bouncing harmlessly off the wall of the cornucopia.

She loaded another bolt. She knew she had a choice to make, and soon enough she would have to decide. Would she succumb to that darkness within her? Use that space that should have been reserved for empathy to hide what was left of her humanity? Could she use it to her advantage? Or would she finally unlock the guilt she should feel for others upon taking another life?

She shot the second bolt. This time, she did not waver. The arrow pierced right through the fabric of the bag, spilling the contents inside to the floor. She made no move to pick them up as she loaded the third bolt, preparing to fire once more. Could she do it, if that was a person? If this was a person, one that had been injured and bleeding out all over the floor, could she shoot the killing shot? Would she be doing them a favour? Taking them out of the world and away from monsters like her. How soon would it be before she was forced to make her decision?

She fired the bolt.

 **Malcolm Edison - District Five**

Malcolm had never been to a circus. Of course, they rarely strayed from the capitol. Only those living in the luxuries of districts One and Two were able to enjoy such entertainment.

Never before had he even seen the outside of a hall of mirrors, yet without ever entering one, somehow he knew that that's what this place was. It's funny, you never would have guessed from the name that the place was in fact, a hall filled with mirrors.

He hadn't realized how dirty he had already become since entering the arena. Already, a thick layer of grime covered every inch of his skin like a blanket. The room that had almost buried him in a mudslide had not helped with his cleanliness. A dried splatter of blood painted his right cheek, he hadn't realized Nathan's blood had tainted his body.

The kid deserved what he got. Ripped apart by a boy turned animalistic monster. It's impossible for anybody to refer to Malcolm as a monster when standing next to Wolf. Right?

He stared at his reflection, as if waiting for an answer. But nothing. Taking a tentative step forwards, Malcolm immediately smacked into the clear and reflective glass of a mirror. Groaning and rubbing his forehead, he turned around to find the hatch he had entered through was no longer there. Instead, he was once again staring at his reflection.

For a moment, he was worried that he had been tricked. Caged like an animal with mirrors making up his prison. But as his arm shot to the left, he sighed in relief as it did not hit anything at all. Turning in that direction, he took a few short steps before smacking into a mirror; this time with his hands preventing his nose from being crushed against the glass.

It took a while, but eventually Malcolm found himself in a steady rhythm. With each step, he would stick his arms out in all directions, and upon finding a space that was not made up of mirror, he would take another step.

But he noticed something strange after a few minutes of the process. The path would shoot in random directions, sometimes forcing the boy to backtrack a few steps, and every now and then he swore he was not alone. He saw it every few seconds; a dark figure just out of the corner of his eye that was dance away and vanish whenever he tried to look directly at it. Was it real? Was it a trick? Or was this maze of mirrors already messing with his mind?

He was so preoccupied with the evasive shadow that he slammed right into another mirror. With a cry of pain he stumbled away, and only just prevented himself from screaming when he realized the person standing on the other side of the glass was no longer him.

Instead, a young girl stood staring up at him. She had billowing brown hair that resembled his short and spiky doo, and had the same pale skin that covered his own body. The only thing that remained consistent between Malcolm and the girl peering up at him was those deep brown eyes that wavered with fear.

"No," Malcolm said, taking a step away. His back hit the cool glass of another mirror, and he found that he could no longer move. He watched as the little girl laughed; laughed at him. Her face twisted into a malicious expression that Malcolm hadn't thought himself capable, and to make matters worse; the girl extended a hand and reached out from within the mirror.

"Come with me, Aisha," The girl said. Her voice was light and airy; it was like she was speaking to him underwater, "Let us be one again,"

"N-no," Malcolm managed to stutter out. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't.

"You must, Aisha," The girl said. Her shoulder passed through the mirror, fingers edging closer and closer to the collar of his shirt, "Do what is right. What you're doing is unnatural. Wrong,"

"It's normal," Malcolm breathed shakily, "It's who I am,"

"No, Aisha," The girl said, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "What you are is an abomination,"

That's what snapped Malcolm out of his daze. Righting himself, he let out a desperate scream and swung his mace as the mirror. The weapon passed right through the girl's arm as if it were an illusion, smashing through the glass of the mirror and shattering the image of the girl with it.

And then he ran. Stumbled, was a more suited word; it was hard to run when you were smacking intro mirrors every few feet. Upon the fourth impact, Malcolm screamed and swung his mace, smashing through every inch of glass he could find until he was staring at large, gaping holes of steel that lay beyond.

"Malcolm!" Another voice called. This one was deeper, not at all like the voice of the girl. Malcolm slowly traipsed around a corner and found himself faced with another set of mirrors. Five Malcolm's stared back at him, but the sixth was the reflection of a young boy with a bloodied throat that was a mess of crimson, flesh, and quivering organ. Nathan.

"You really thought this would make you less of a monster?" The boy spoke; his voice gargled and cracked, "You thought disfiguring me would make things better? It didn't, you're still just a -"

Malcom didn't allow the boy to continue, with a scream he swung the mace and smashed through the boys face. The glass rained down upon him as he stumbled through the maze; now partially blinded by crystal tears. Up ahead, he could see another figure. This one was a man; one he could not recognize. He was young and wore a snarl; and when he spoke, he didn't even glance in Malcolm's direction.

"You should have done better, boy!" The man boomed, "I have never laid eyes on such a disappointment before,"

Malcolm didn't want to hear more. He didn't want to hear anything anymore. He screamed and smashed the mirror apart, and swung around as another figure appeared behind him. However, this time, the person in the mirror did not stand by and idly wait for their destruction. Instead, this person ducked, and as Malcolm stared down at wild eyes, he realized that the boy who he had narrowly avoiding bludgeoning was really there.

"Aisha!" The little girls voice cried again Malcolm went rigid and a look of recognition appeared in the eyes of the other boy.

"Malcolm!" The boy said, but Malcolm was not listening. He screamed and smashed at the closest mirror, skin burning as chips of glass slashed at his flesh, "Malcolm!"

A hand wrapped around his wrist and slowed his movement; and as Malcolm was brought back to those grey eyes, he noticed the necklace hanging idly from his neck. It was then that he realized that he knew the boy; a boy who had caused him pain and anguish ever since his transition. A boy who made his life a living hell.

And yet, he let that boy take his hand and lead him away from the horror that was the hall of mirrors.

 **Felecia Coin - District Twelve**

When she was young, a primary school teacher once likened Felecia to a volcano. Like the ancient mountain of rock, Felecia was able to keep her emotions buried deep in the crust of her being. But as things in her life began to shift; to change and morph into a world she was no longer comfortable with, she would explode and spout emotions much like a volcano would drench itself in boiling hot lava.

As of the present, Felecia could feel an eruption coming on. Thick, black smoke was beginning to seep through the cracks of her laid back facade. Yet she still carried on with an easy-going smile that gave the impression that she was not phased by what was going on.

She didn't want to admit that the barren white rooms where getting to her; she didn't want to acknowledge that feeling of utter terror and defeat. She didn't want to admit that she was not trying to survive at all because some part of her didn't want to.

She stood with her back pressed against the wall, fingers lingering gently on the wheel of the hatch she had just clambered through. The room ahead was so vastly different to every other she had been in, and the sudden shift in scenery made the girl long for those rooms of white.

To say this room was enormous was an understatement, even to describe it of a monstrous height was not quite fitting. It was simply bigger than Felecia could possibly comprehend. She found herself standing by a regular sized hatch at the side of comfortable looking bed. The room was a bedroom, she could decipher that much; a teenage one at that. The bed was a single, draped with blue sheets and soft, black pillow. From where she stood, she could see a desk pressed against the wall opposite; complete with a top of the line computer, a set of stationary, and various books and notes.

But there was one simple fact that made this room so terrifying, and that was the fact that Felecia was only about an inch tall. The bed towered above the girl, she did not even reach a quarter ways up the closest post. From where she stood, she could see a set of metal rungs plastered into the side of the wood, allowing somebody of her size to climb onto the bed. The pencil she could see tilting just over the edge of the large desk was bigger than she, and could probably badly injure her should it fall on the girl.

She wasn't sure what to do, the monstrosity of a room had paralyzed her. Her knees felt weak, a cold feeling flooded her chest, and her hands were shaking at a tremendous speed. Everything about this felt unnatural; wrong. And yet, she was intrigued.

Instead of turning away, instead of turning back and climbing right back through that hatch and into safety, Felecia instead made a move for the bedpost. The climb could take a while, she was so far down that the very surface of the bed felt as if it were a million miles away, and despite that fear she felt, Felecia pushed it back down. She pushed it away and locked it inside of the cupboard that was already overflowing with her emotions; the cupboard that was so close to bursting.

"But not yet," Felecia said to nobody in particular as she reached for the first rung, forcing another casual and relaxed smile onto her face, "Not just yet,"

 **Ivy McKinnon - District Two**

 _Ivy McKinnon smiled as the blurring countryside finally shifted into the outskirts of a well populated district; squeezed in the backseat beside a number of sleeping bags, tents, and luggage, she was eager to finally get out and stretch her long legs. The journey from District Two to District Eleven had not been a comfortable one, but in Ivy's eyes, it was more time to spend with her family. Maybe her sister's recent passing had been a blessing in disguise; at least the backseat was a little less cramped._

 _Her mother's knuckles were growing whiter as the passing houses became more and more condensed, her previously relaxed face twisting into a serious and determined frown. Her father looked anything but; his eyes would flick over to his silent wife every few seconds, and when he wasn't looking at her, his worried eyes would peer at Ivy through the rearview mirror._

 _The family seldom passed any cars on the road; most in District Eleven were not wealthy enough to afford a vehicle, only the richest of the rich could obtain such a luxury. Most in District Two had the money to afford a vehicle, but only those interested in inter-district travel would bother with one. Ivy had been surprised at her mother's sudden purchase of the ratty car and suggestion that they take a vacation; and maybe she was a little curious to as why they had left without the proper papers or the clearance of the Peace Keepers, and the fact that they had fled in the middle of the night was curious. But Ivy was yet to ask questions. She didn't want to ruin this precious bonding experience._

 _"It's not too late," Quintin McKinnon whispered to his wife, Ivy supposed the lowered tone implied that she should tune out, but that did not stop her from eavesdropping, "We can turn back now before things get out of hand,"_

 _"Backing down is not an option," Melissa McKinnon answered, her voice as clear as day, "I am not letting Paser get away with this. He robbed us, Quintin. We can barely afford food as it is,"_

 _"And yet you went out and blew the last of our savings on a car!" Quintin growled, eyes once again flickering to meet Ivy's in the mirror. Her mother did not answer, her grip on the steering wheel growing ever-tighter, "Mellisa, if anybody finds out about this. . ."_

 _"Nobody will know!" Melissa snapped, and then with a groan, she twisted around in her seat to look at Ivy. Her once bright and beautiful red hair was now straw-like and discoloured, her skin was the colour of paper and her eyes that used to dazzle those who met them were now sunken and dark, "It will be our family secret, okay Ivy? Nobody can ever know. . ."_

 _"Eyes on the road!" Quintin shouted, going rigid in his seat and shooting out an arm to grasp the steering wheel as the car swerved. Melissa whipped back around to face the front and screamed, yanking the steering wheel to the right so violently that Ivy smacked her head against the window. But her attempt to dodge whatever was blocking the road was in vain. The car gave a sudden and drastic lurch, the sound of crunching metal met Ivy's ears as she was thrown forwards, thankfully restrained by her seatbelt. Her chest burned as Ivy fell back against the seat, for a moment she just sat and whimpered with pain while her parents gasped; her mother giving out a shriek._

 _"Oh my god," Melissa whispered, her voice no longer clear and confident but fearful and shaky, "I didn't. . .I couldn't. . .,"_

 _"We have to go, Melissa," Quintin said sharply, "You have to drive, just back up and. . ."_

 _"I can't!" Melissa shouted, "Quintin, we can't just walk away from this! We have to. . .we have to do something!"_

 _"Melissa, if we get caught. . ." Her father's eyes peered at Ivy from behind his seat, "If we get caught, you know what's going to happen. We can't do it again. The price we payed the first time, Melissa . . . We can't risk it again,"_

 _"You're right," Melissa breathed, reaching for the gearstick and shifting the car into reverse, "We can't risk it,"_

 _Ivy heard a scream from outside, and watched as a young, dark skinned girl stumbled away from her open front gate. Tears were streaming down her face as she shrieked and begged for help as Ivy's mother shifted into drive and drove around whatever it was she had hit._

 _She only saw it for a second; a brief flash of blood on the pavement and lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. The body of a little girl lay twisted and bloodied on the bitchumen, with an injured but very much alive cat squirming in her dead arms._

 _Nobody spoke for a long while as the car sped away from the scene of an unforgivable crime; after an unknown amount of time, Melissa doubled back and soon small houses with picket white fences gave way to open and dry bushland. When Ivy's eyes caught her mother's in the mirror, she saw they were now red and blotchy with tears._

 _"Don't worry, mummy," Ivy said, leaning forwards in her seat with a smile, "It will be our family secret, okay?"_

***

Ivy found herself reflecting on the day she was presented with her first family secret as she watched the girl resting in an uncomfortable position on the wooden bench inside of the cell. Of course, it wasn't the last secret her family had accumulated over the years, and in Ivy's experience, the truth had a way of finding it's way to light.

The repercussions of the death of the young District Eleven girl did not catch up with the McKinnon family for over a year; her parents had thought they had hid the evidence very well. Nobody had known the family had briefly vanished from District Two on that fateful weekend, and after her mother assured the family that the car had been properly disposed of, it appeared they were in the clear.

Unfortunately for her parents, that all caught up with the family after Ivy found herself plastered all over the interdistrict news after a breakthrough was made in the case of Ivy's sister's kidnapper. The sister of the young girl the McKinnon family had killed must have recognized the redhead due to an exclusive interview, and shortly afterwards the damaged car was pulled from a lake on the outskirts of District Two. Her mother was arrested seven days later, but Ivy never worried. She wouldn't let such a tragic event crush her spirit, after all, she had been able to visit her mother whenever she wanted, and her imprisonment only brought Ivy and her father closer.

Once a week, on Saturday morning, Ivy would visit her mother in prison. The woman was out of it most of the time, lost in an insanity she had slipped into after her criminal act of manslaughter. Ivy would stand on the otherside of those bars, watching and hoping that her mother would wake up. But at the same time, Ivy felt happy for her. She was safe, there was no more reason for her to fear. And she looked so peaceful while asleep, just as the girl inside of the cell now appeared.

She sat on the foot of an oddly placed bed, wondering why the girl had opted for the cold prison cell and reveling in the remainder of how she last saw her mother. She stayed like that for a while, hoping to move on before she woke up, but apparently the girl was not doing much sleeping as she growled, "How long are you going to just sit there and watch?"

"How long have you been awake?" Ivy asked awkwardly.

"Since before you came in," The girl said. Her eyes slowly opened, and in a maneuver that appeared to require ample effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bench and twisted into a sitting position, "I was waiting for you to leave,"

"Sorry," Ivy said, fiddling with the straps of her handbag, "I lost myself in thought,"

"Well, if you mind," The girl said, sneering disgustingly Ivy, "I'd like to sit and die in peace,"

Her voice was raspy, sounding as if she hadn't had a drink in ages. It suddenly hit Ivy that she most likely hadn't. So, being the kind soul that she was, a hand dipped into her handbag and pulled a full water bottle. Standing from the bed, she traipsed over and stuck her hand through the bars of the cell, "Would you like a drink?"

"That kind of defeats the purpose of waiting to die," The girl grumbled.

"There are less painful ways to kill yourself," Ivy prompted, "If you're going to die, you might as well do it in comfort,"

The girl sighed, and after a moment of hesitation, reached out to accept the bottle. Ivy watched intently as she unscrewed the cap and had a drink, draining three quarters of the bottle before finally detaching and gasping for air.

"Feel better?" Ivy said with a smile.

"No," The girl grunted, and as she passed the bottle back, she whispered, "Thanks,"

"My pleasure," Ivy said, placing the bottle back in her handbag, "My name is Ivy McKinnon,"

"Tracey," The other girl answered, and just as Ivy opened her mouth, she held up a hand, "Just. . .Tracey. You don't need to know my last name,"

"Fair enough," Ivy said, and after a pause, "Would you like something to eat?"

"What do you have?" Tracey answered, a little too eagerly. She was now pressed up against the bars of the cell, trying to take a peek inside of Ivy's handbag.

"I have muffins, peaches, bananas, muesli bars, and a packet of what I assume is cold beef," Ivy said; and she could see the girl's mouth watering with each suggestion. Ivy's guess was that Tracey was not used to going more than a few hours on an empty stomach, "You can have some-"

"Thankyou!" Tracey said, reaching towards the handbag through the bars only to swipe at thin air as Ivy pulled the bag out of reach.

"If you agree to free yourself and accompany me for a short while," Ivy said with a smile, "I could use a companion. Last night was quite lonely,"

Tracey looked at her with scepticism, "Why do you want me of all people?"

"You seem perfectly normal to me," Ivy said pleasantly, "Now, why don't you let yourself out?"

"How do you know the door is locked?" Tracey asked, passing a sly glance towards the locked gateway.

"I assumed it was for your own protection," Ivy said, and then as an afterthought, "Or because you had not intended on leaving,"

"Well, don't you have me all figured out?" Tracey said. Her face was dark and a sneer played on her lips, but her tone was playful, Ivy almost suspected that the girl was enjoying their little interaction, "How do I know you won't just kill me if I leave?"

"You want to die anyway," Ivy said, cocking her head, "So why does it matter?"

Tracey considered the question, "I guess it doesn't,"

Her voice was now glum, yet she pulled a silver key from her pocket all the same. She walked with a slight limp towards the door; Ivy wondered if it was from an injury or because of a very uncomfortable sleep. Ivy smiled widely as the girl unlocked the door and slipped outside; arms folded across her chest in a mean of defence that was highly ineffective. Ivy stepped forwards and handed her bag towards Tracey. Maybe the girl would snag the bag and run away with it; but Ivy would not mind, she was sure she would be greatly rewarded for helping another in need. If the girl was just tricking her, and a knife lay somewhere on her body, ready to pierce Ivy's body, then that would be okay too. At least then, she would be able to see her sister once more.

But neither of those things happened. Tracey tentatively took the bag, and dug a hand inside, pulling out a slimy packet of beef and sitting down slowly on the bed. Ivy sat down beside her and watched with a smile as the girl dug in like a ravenous animal. Maybe it was wasteful to pass food onto a girl who had no intent of living, but Ivy was never one to look at the negatives. All Ivy saw was a companion, and that is all she needed to see.


	8. Day Two: Just One Step

**Phelan Krouse - District Eight**

The barrier between the conscious and unconscious state of mind is a thin one. When drifting in a realm of dreams and infinite possibilities, one can be pulled back into a world of horrors without warning and only a small moment in time between the two where it feels as if what you had seen while asleep could really become true. But that thin blanket tears easier than a damp tissue, and suddenly you are flooded with reminders about your mistakes and misfortunes, misgivings and malevolent acts. Suddenly, you are back in a world of evil.

Phelan had been dreaming of a factory; an all too familiar building where he had spent a majority of his teenage years. The usual damp and rundown warehouse was no bright and bustling with life; nobody noticing Phelan as he proceeded to do what he loved with a feeling of comfort and warmth. The faces around him were unfamiliar, blank slates that could not possibly belong to anybody he knew as they never gave him a second glance. If they had been Phelan's friends, he would have been forced to stop and face the music.

As he drifted back into a world where he lay bleeding on a cold tile with his hands bound behind his back, the first thing he felt was longing. How he wished he could pull that factory into reality. How he wished to bury himself amongst a pile of fabric and sew away his pain and misfortune. For a moment, it felt as if that were all possible. But then he felt the pain.

The deep gash on his hip had been taped over with a thick, white cotton cloth. It was one from his own bag, whoever had placed it had most likely assumed it were some form of bandage. He was not about to correct them by revealing the sewing needle in his pocket.

The makeshift bandage did nothing to dull the pain, each miniscule movement felt as if he were tearing open a wound that had already made an attempt to close over. It felt as if that knife were still dragging through his flesh.

He was not sure how he obtained the wound on his leg, but it felt far worse than the one on his hip. A blazing inferno flared beneath the cloth of a shirt that had been tied around it; his own, maybe. Phelan had questions to as why he was still alive, why his hands were bound, and why he had been left alive. But all he could do was let out a moan of pain.

"He's up!" A deep voice said loudly; a pair of shoes stepped into his line of vision; the owner crouching down in front of the boy who was laying with his back pressed against the wall and tears flowing down his cheeks, "Bring me the painkillers,"

"There's only four," A second voice said; and suddenly a barrel of kindling fell into that inferno of pain and a volcanic eruption of agony tore through Phelan's leg as Brody Lewis moved him into a sitting position. He screamed; or at least he tried to. Brody's hand found it's way to Phelan's mouth and clamped down, allowing nothing but a mere squeak to emit.

"You have to be quiet," Brody said stiffly, "We don't want you waking sleeping beauty,"

"Beauty my ass," Quinn Hyland said as she too crouched by the now propped up Phelan, "I can't tell what's uglier: His face or his personality,"

"Just be happy he hasn't woken up yet," Brody grunted, and moved his hand across Phelan's face before squeezing his cheeks. The boy's mouth opened, and Brody shoved two heavy duty painkillers inside, "Swallow,"

"I'm keeping the other two for me and Darcy," Quinn said, standing up and walking away, "It's not like we haven't earnt it,"

Phelan pondered who it was that Quinn and Brody had knocked out and tied up other than he; he hoped that it was Grant and not the beastly Wolf. The moment he swallowed the pills, the inferno of pain began to die. Long tendrils of flame spluttered into nothingness, and soon after Phelan was only vaguely away of a needle prick of pain in his leg.

"Feel better, buddy?" Brody said with a grin, patting Phelan's cheek and standing up.

"I'm pretty sure most people don't tie up their 'buddy'," Phelan growled. Brody only laughed in response and stood. Phelan rolled his head to the side and found himself staring at Quinn's backside as she bent down and rummaged through a backpack. His backpack. Beside it, Darcy Retorre sat with his back pressed up against the button pedestal, staring at Phelan with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry that I don't trust people who try to strangle me," Quinn spat as she stood from the bag, her voice laced with venom.

"I'm sorry that I defend myself from people who fling themselves at me," Phelan spat. The two glared at each other, each with fire blazing in their eyes. Had he not just been drugged, Phelan would be on his feet and charging at the girl, but it seemed the painkillers had numbed his anger as well as his pain.

"Quiet, you two!" Brody snapped, "You're going to wake the baby!"

He pointed towards another figure lying on the floor. Grant Gino had his hands bound behind his back and his ankles tied together. Where had they gotten all of this rope?

"Right," Phelan mumbled, "My bag,"

On the very far side of the room, sixth body lay asleep. Wolf had a rope wrapped around his throat that was connected to the wheel of a hatch, preventing him from moving too far away. Quinn and Brody must have made good use of Grant's leash.

"What are you planning on doing with him?" Phelan found himself asking; the question had been intended for Brody, but it was Quinn who answered.

"He's our prisoner. When we are ready, we will move on and take him with us," Quinn said slowly, "If we run into another person who likes to play with their food, then we can hand Grant over and run,"

"What about me?" Phelan asked, and then with a glance at the third boy, "And Wolf?"

Quinn pursed her lips, "You'll be free to go, I guess,"

"Then why am I tied up?"

"Because I don't trust you," Quinn said, turning her back and returning to rummaging through her bag, "I'll untie you when we leave,"

"And when will that be!" Phelan shouted, but Quinn did not dignify him with an answer. Scowling, Phelan relaxed his shoulders and slid further down the wall, staring daggers at the girls back.

"She'll get over it," Brody said, "Girls tend to not like boys who almost kill them right away,"

"Gee, you're so wise," Phelan snarled. Brody only grinned, and sat next to Phelan. They sat in silence for a while, listening to Grants soft snoring and Wolf's occasional whimpers. Darcy and Quinn conversed silently from their spot against the button, and each time their voices became heated, one would shoot a look in Phelan's direction.

"What do they expect me to do?" Phelan asked quietly after a while, head hanging low so that Brody could not see his expression, "I won't make it with these injuries,"

"They're not life threatening," Brody said, and then sighed, "Although it may take a while before you're able to run again. And then the wound could get infected, and that would be bad because. . ."

"I get the picture," Phelan snapped.

They sat in silence for a little while longer, until Phelan finally asked the question he was itching to express, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Brody's expression darkened, and for a second Phelan thought he was going to say he wish he had. But that momentary look that would have been at home on the place of a bloodthirsty killer flickered away as quickly as it came, and Brody turned his head away, "Because Quinn and Darcy aren't killers, and I am not fond of the act either,"

"I'm not a killer either," Phelan said sadly, "and I don't want to die just yet. There's. . .a lot I need to apologize for,"

"I think everyone in here is like that," Brody said, and then with a sideways glance at Wolf, "Well, most of us are like that,"

"Are you ready to die?" Phelan asked. The question was not one that should have been asked of a stranger who you knew nothing about; yet in the arena, knowing somebody for even a second felt like years. Phelan felt as if he knew a lot about Brody, yet the boy sitting beside him was more of a question mark than ever.

"No," Brody said finally, "Not yet. I don't intend on it at all, but there is something I have to do before I die,"

"What's that?"

Brody sighed, "My girlfriend. S-shes in here too. I need to find her, and apologize for everything I've done. I need to protect her before it's too late,"

"I can't imagine what that's like," Phelan said, "I don't think I've ever loved somebody,"

"Never?" Brody asked, "Not even your parents?"

"Didn't know my parents," Phelan shrugged, "Not my real ones, anyway. I can't stand my foster family. I hate them,"

"It's a wonderful feeling, love," Brody sighed, "It's a thousand times better than anything you could ever experience. It can be the best thing in the world,"

"Can be?"

"It can also be the worst," Brody said, and then he looked Phelan directly in the eyes, "If I were you, I'd be thankful that you don't have anybody who you care for. It makes this entire experience so much worse,"

"Guess I'm lucky," Phelan mumbled. Maybe he was lucky, but Phelan couldn't help but feel robbed. He felt as if an essential part of life had been stolen from him; and somehow, that thought was even scarier than the idea of death.

He didn't want to think about it; he didn't want to deal with emotions such as worry, fear, and pity, and as those emotions that had not existed in that near-perfect dream of before, he knew there was only one way to escape.

"Brody," Phelan said, his voice confident and serious, "I know this is a stupid idea, and you're probably going to say no. But is there anyway you could just, untie my hands so I can. . .continue my sewing? Please? It's the only thing that really gives me comfort,"

Brody watched him with an expression painted in eyes of deep brown that Phelan could not interpret, and he feared that the boy would burst into a fit of laughter at the mere idea of a boy sewing like a woman. But he didn't laugh, and to Phelan's immense relief, he nodded, "Fine. But on two conditions,"

"Anything,"

"Firstly, I will tie your legs up instead. I may be an idiot, but I'm not stupid enough to risk falling for a trick if that's what this is," He said, and then sighed, "And secondly, I want you to apologize to Darcy,"

"Why?"

"What you said really hurt him," Brody said, his face now worried, "He hasn't spoken since. I think he is having some kind of PTSD attack,"

"Oh," Phelan said, guilt now weaving its way onto the blanket of dark emotions that wrapped around Phelan in a cocoon so tight that he almost couldn't breathe, "I'll do it. I promise,"

"Then I'll get the rope,"

"Thankyou," Phelan whispered as Brody stood and crossed the room towards Quinn and the backpack, "Thankyou,"

 **Felecia Coin - District Twelve**

Felecia had once heard her father say that all of your hard work and effort would be worth it once you reached your goal; nothing could beat the feeling of euphoria after climbing to the peak of a mountain. Yet, as Felecia heaved herself up from the final rung and onto the mattress made for a giant, she felt anything but euphoric.

Her body was aching; joints and muscles she didn't even know existed were groaning in protest with each movement. She thought she would feel something upon reaching the top; a spark of happiness or pride that would inject some life into the relaxed smile she would force herself to wear. But as she stood on the edge of the mattress; at the floor so far below, all she could think about was how easy it would be to make it all go away. Just one step; that's all it would take.

Could she really deal with this forever? Could she deal with this pain forever? She felt helpless; suspended over a pool of icy black water by a frail rope that threatened to snap with each passing second. An cool mist would rise from the water and seep into a hole in her chest that she did not know was there. The cavity where happiness should be. What would happen if she cut the rope? Would it not be easier to just plunge into that black water and sink below the surface forever? Just one step.

What about Brody? She thought. The one beam of sunlight that penetrated the heavy ocean of dark storm clouds that gathered around her head. The one blossoming rose in a field of withering flowers. Could she hold on for him? Would he still want her if he knew how truly broken she was. Never show the world your fear, her father had said, always greet the day with a smile. Nobody wants to know how pathetic you feel. Would Brody want to know? Just one step.

A sound drifted up to reach her ears from down below. Lowering to her hands and knees, Felecia crawled towards the very edge of the mattress and peered over the side. How close she was; how easy it would be to fall. Two people who could have passed as ants stood together by the bedpost she had only just climbed. They must have been yelling, how else could their voices have travelled so far?

One of the two figures pulled away from the other, reaching out for the ladder Felecia had just climbed and pulling themselves up. A breath caught in Felecia's throat; did they know she was here? Had they seen her while her back had been turned? Like a fly on the wall, was she about to be swatted?

She was surprised to find fear trickling down the back of her spine. She hadn't expected it, but she welcomed it like an old friend come for dinner. The fear meant something. It meant she was not yet ready to pass on to the otherside. It meant she was going to stay suspended over that lake for a little longer; dangling, but alive. One more step is what it would take; a single step to end it all.

But that step was not one Felecia was ready to take.

Heath Graves - District Ten

Heath had theorized that being handcuffed to an attractive girl could have no downside. Clearly, he was wrong.

Willow Drake was an insufferable and arrogant bitch. Her crude and brash comments had already done a number to Heath's pride and self worth; but he was not about to let the girl know that. To top it all off, she was extremely stubborn and claimed that, because she was older, she knew far more than 'some little brat', and since she had taken the reigns, progress had been little.

They were moving so slowly that they might as well be going backwards; over the course of seven hours, they had only progressed through five rooms. The first had been easy enough; a small toy store with products unlike any Heath had ever seen. To a teenager who was still a kid at heart; the numerous shelves lined with toy cars and figurines and board games and bicycles was nothing short of heaven; of course, Willow could not have imagined a worse hell. Turning a blind eye to Heath's complaining, the stronger girl resorted to dragging her companion across the room towards a hatch that had a blood red train chugging along a track that trailed across the walls of the room. The cuts the handcuffs had made upon digging into Heath's skin as Willow dragged him along were not about to heal anytime soon.

The second room caused an argument that left Heath wondering how long it would be before Willow killed him. This room was empty; the only difference between it and your everyday room of nothingness was the fact that the rims of the hatches were outlined with various shades of red-like colours. Predictably, this sparked an argument between the two that ended with Heath sporting an ugly black eye, and Willow bearing bite marks on her exposed forearm.

Willow had argued that the Ruby coloured hatch was the one they were to progress through, whereas Heath was convinced that Rose was the correct colour, as it was the brighter than the rest.

"The Candy one is brighter than Rose!" Willow spat, "Are you blind? Oh, wait! You are!"

"Oh, what a comedic genius you are!" Heath snarled back, "Please, continue! You're 'Ruby is the reddest red' argument is the most comical thing you've said all day!"

After a brief scuffle, Heath was forced to follow Willow through the Ruby hatch. Much to her fury, the room on the other side was completely bare. Heaths smug laugh was cut short by a slap to the face. Willow reluctantly followed Heath through the Rose hatch afterwards, and appeared to be in a much better mood when the two found themselves standing on a snowy slope that descended into a fluffy-marshmallow like valley. They slipped through the crimson hatch next, and were convinced it was the correct path after they saw a large, red-leafed tree casting a shadow over a hatch on the other side of a rickety rope bridge. It had taken the pair a while to maneuver over the bridge; and to their dismay, the room on the other side of that hatch was nothing but a long, empty hallway.

The candy hatch led the handcuffed duo to a warehouse like room with impenetrable boxes creating a maze-like path. A trail of crimson blood led the pair to the fourth room; Heath wondered if that blood had belonged to one of the two children who had died yesterday; or another that had passed while he was conked out.

The fourth room took up copious amounts of their time as they were confronted with a dark room with dazzling floor tiles. The walls were painted black, whereas the numerous tiles of various colours illuminated the floor. At first glance, it appeared easy enough to simply cross the room and reach the hatch situated over a neon red tile, but life was cruel and unjust. The moment Heath had set his foot onto the purple tile in front of him; the two had been transported to a tile in the nearest left corner. Each tile would teleport the pair to another in a seemingly random pattern, and it took what felt like hours before the pair finally reached the hatch they needed.

Beyond was a room that Heath could not place for the life of him. Rows and rows of pews stood on either side of a long, purple rug that ran towards the front of the room where a wooden podium stood atop of stage. On the left side of the stage was a piano so ancient that Heath wondered if it would really work. The walls that surrounded the pews were home to large, pane windows that depicted various scenes such as a man and a woman knelt together in prayer or a thin looking man nailed to a wooden cross. Looming over the stage at the very front of the room was a window larger than the rest; each section of coloured glass pieced together to create the image of a bearded man dressed in flowing white; his arms were outspread as if waiting for a hug and a golden halo hovered gently above his head.

Heath turned to Willow, who was staring at the enormous window with a gobsmacked expression, and grinned, "I think you'd look good with a beard like that, ya know? I'm sure with enough effort, you could pull off the hairy pipsqueak look,"

Willow smacked him on the back of the head roughly, and lowered herself to hiss in his ear, "That's Jesus, you idiot?"

"Like the sandwich?" Heath asked, bewildered. Willow wrinkled her nose at the boy and took a step towards the stage, yanking the shorter along by the handcuffs.

"Jesus, not _cheese_ ," Willow sneered, not even bothering to glance at her companion as she lead him down the rug, eyes seldom wandering from the man dressed in white, "He's a religious figure in Christianity, which was a pretty big deal a few hundred years ago,"

"Never heard of him," Heath frowned. Religion was not as big a practice as it used to be in Panem, in fact, most had abolished the practice a few hundred years ago. There had been a massive uproar from within the newly formed districts; apparently the capitol did not approve of those below them believing in a being more powerful and worthy of following than they.

"Of course you haven't," Willow scoffed, "You people live in barns, don't you? Amongst the animals? It would explain the clothes and hair,"

"Wow! I didn't know we were in middle school!" Heath said, lacing his voice with sarcasm at the catty insult. He fiddled lightly with the hem of his torn jeans; he thought they had looked badass; he didn't want to admit his pride was hurt, so he deflected instead, "Since when were you such a little know-it-all?"

"I read," Willow said stiffly, "My mother was very into history. She never knew I'd liked it as well. Not like I'd ever want her to know,"

"The whole world knows now," Heath sniffed, "What makes this guy so important?"

"He was the son of god," Willow explained, "Sent down from Heaven to show humanity the right way to live their lives. He was a perfect person, treated all with kindness and respect and love. He possessed miraculous abilities; he could cure any disease with just a touch and walk on water. He was supposed to be the true king that would overthrow the sinners and darkness in humanity. But an ancient civilization known as the Romans saw this as a threat, so the crucified him by nailing him to a cross,"

"Oh." Heath peered at the paned depiction of the man nailed to a cross. Was that really the true son of god? How could somebody so powerful be taken down so easily, "Did it all really happen?"

"Of course not," Willow scoffed, "It's just a story. A story to trick people into doing what was seen as 'the right way to live' and to offer comfort to those who feared death,"

"Seems a bit farfetched to me," Heath said.

"Only because you weren't brought up around it," Willow said stiffly, "I'm sure many people would think people bathing with their pigs is farfetched, yet your family exists,"

Heath scowled, but said nothing. He had already received enough beatings from Willow Drake. He spied a thick, black book sitting atop the podium as he and Willow stopped just in front of the stage. Heath suddenly found himself feeling nervous, as if the unmoving depiction of Jesus would strike him down for not believing.

"That's a bible," Willow said, pointing to the book, "You can read all about christianity in there,"

"I can't read much of anything without glasses," Heath mumbled. Willow did not answer him, and appeared hesitant as she took a step in the direction of the stage. Heath found himself being gently pulled along as opposed to roughly yanked, and wondered briefly if somebody had killed the real Willow and taken her place. Together, they climbed the short stairs and onto the stage, bathing themselves in the rainbow glare that shone down from the window. Heath's arms snaked into a folded position across his chest; he had never felt as small as he did in front of the enormous man. It was as if the room was implanting thoughts into his head, thoughts that made him want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

He found himself reflecting on the day he landed a girl back home in hospital. His father had asked Heath to go out and ensure that the cattle pen was locked after dinner. The man's memory was deteriorating with his age; Heath often found himself switching off the stove upon waking up for a glass of water in the middle of the night or chasing after the truck as it rolled back down the drive, his father was a very forgetful man. In the light of the setting sun, Heath found himself strolling halfway across the large property to the cattle paddock. He must have been in a bad mood, for he could remember kicking rocks along the dirt path and grumbling angrily under his breath. The cattle were restless when he reached the paddock, he watched as the animals charged back and forth across the field, occasionally ramming into each other and thundering off again.

Heath Graves has always enjoyed the sight of chaos, and this opportunity was too perfect to pass up, and before he could even think of the repercussions, he was pulling the pin on the gate and swinging it open. The cattle didn't notice the opening right away, but the moment one of the creatures saw its chance of freedom, it let out a thundering moo and Heath found himself narrowly avoiding becoming a pancake as the herd of cattle stampeded past and down the dirt path.

Heath was delighted as he watched the herd head in the direction of town, and reveled in the idea of what madness would ensue. He would later regret his decision when he heard that the girl who would come and purchase fresh eggs from the Graves family was trampled and nearly crippled by the rampaging cattle. He had never regretted a decision more, and to this very day, nobody knew that it was he who freed them.

Willow appeared to be lost in thoughts of reflection and horrid memories as she stared down at the thick black book with a golden cross on it's cover. The hand that was cuffed to Heath's was trembling slightly, She suddenly reached forwards, hand lightly gliding over the cover of the book, as if she were tracing the outline of that golden cross. And then suddenly the book opened.

Heath screamed and leapt backwards, pulling Willow with him, as the cover flipped over and the pages began turning on their own accord at a pace so fast it was impossible to keep track of. Willow was now trembling worse than ever, her legs suddenly gave out beneath her and she fell onto her butt. Heath only just managed to prevent himself from falling down beside her.

The pages suddenly stopped, and for a moment remained motionless, open to a page of writing that was too blurred for Heath to make out. And then the book exploded in a shower of golden light.

Heath was now the one falling backwards as he was nearly blinded by the sheer brightness of the light, raising a hand across his face to prevent himself from looking directly at it. The light softened soon after, changing from a sparkling yellow to a heavenly golden glow. As Heath lowered his hand, he found himself faced with the most elegant and beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin was fairer than any maiden, her hair billowed down her back in waves of gold, and a golden halo hovered gently above her head, bobbing up and down lightly as she smiled down at the handcuffed tributes. The glow appeared to brighten as she gave the pair a mother like smile, hands clasped together tightly as she floated in place, held aloft by two, thick and feathery wings that sprouted from her back.

"She's hot," Heath murmured to himself.

"She's an angel," Willow breathed. He supposed it was supposed to have been said in a snarky tone, but Heath himself felt all his anger flooding away as he bathed in the radiant golden glow of the angel.

"Hello, my children," The angel said. Her voice was elegant, and it filled Heath's chest with a warmth unlike anything he had ever felt before. A grin wormed it's way onto his face; he felt as if he were suddenly lounging on a field of marshmallow, "I welcome you to the lord's place of worship,"

"What's an angel?" Heath whispered to Willow, however he kept his eyes on the floating woman instead of looking at his companion, it was as if he could not look away.

"They're the messengers of god," Willow answered, her voice meek and wavering.

"Correct, my dear child," The angel said elegantly, "We are spiritual beings, holy and sinless,"

"Sinless?" Heath asked.

"Wait, that's not right," Willow said with a frown, "I thought I read somewhere that there were angels that rebelled against god. . ."

"My children," The angel said, extending her arms in a manner much like the depiction of Jesus in the pane glass window, "It is time to enter god's graces. Confess your sins and repent,"

"I don't think I've ever sinned," Heath said, puffing out his chest, "I am a model citizen,"

"Each human is born sinful," The angel said softly, "It is in your nature. From the original Sin Of Adam to the birth of the most recent child, no human is sinless. Not one,"

"Woah, Adam must have been a bit of a rebel to be the first guy to sin," Heath said seriously.

"Adam was the first human, you dope," Willow scowled, however the look vanished almost right away and she peered at the angel with an apologetic look.

"Adam and Eve's betrayal of god by partaking in the forbidden fruit was the first of billions," The angel said, "Your only option is to repent and beg for forgiveness,"

"I still can't think of a time I have sinned," Heath said thoughtfully. He frowned as he reflected on the incident with the cattle. Would that count as a sin?

"Well, my child, you should be grateful that it is not you I have been sent for," The angel said warmly. She moved across the stage in an elegant glide, until she was floating right above the two fallen tributes, "Willow Drake, it is time to confess,"

"C-confess?" Willow stuttered. Heath had barely seen anything other than anger on the girl's pale face, and it was a little disturbing to see her expression twisted into a look of a fear so deep it was as if she were staring directly into the eyes of death, "I-I have nothing to confess!"

"Do not lie to me, child!" The angel said, her voice suddenly lost its warmth. For a moment, her entire body flickered. Heath could have sworn he saw a much darker being in that split second, however there was no trace of black wings and flickering, orange flames as her face returned to it's pale elegance, "I am a messenger of god! We know all and see all!"

"I'm not lying! I haven't done anything!" Willow screamed, her voice sounded broken and hopeless, and Heath found himself feeling more terrified by the tears in her eyes than the now thundering tone of the angel.

"All humans have sinned, Willow Drake, and you are no exception!" The angel boomed, "But some sinners are worse than others, and you, Willow Drake, are one of the darkest evils alive!"

"I-I'm not," Willow whimpered. She began to heave, as if she were about to empty the contents of her stomach all over her lap. The angels glow was growing brighter with each passing second, Heath found that he could no longer peer at her face as his hand slipped through the open pocket of his bag, praying that he could find the hilt of the one knife had had without the angel noticing, "I-I'm n-not evil,"

Heath's fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife, and the boy discretely peered at the blade as he pulled it from his bag. As the tip passed the soft fabric, Heath almost threw up when he saw that a chunk of his ear was still skewered on the blade.

"You cannot hide from god, child!" The angel boomed, "Confess, repent, and beg for forgiveness or pay the price!"

Willow whimpered, and began opening her mouth and closing it again without forming a word. It was now impossible to look at the angel directly, for she was far too bright. Fortunately, she was close enough that Heath would not be able to miss. As Willow managed to sputter out a weak, "I don't. . .", Heath spoke.

"I don't know how long you've been away from Earth, lady," He snarked, peering at the light from the corner of his eye, "And I can't speak for Willow, but I hate being told what to do. And I certainly don't _beg!_ "

The angel made an outraged sound, but before she could even bark a response, Heath flung the throwing knife forwards. The throw was weak and would have most certainly missed had she not been so close, but thankfully, the blade hit. Or at least it appeared to.

The angel screeched, and Heath screamed and scrunched his eyes closed as the angel exploded into a supernova of golden light. The warm feeling in his chest vaporised as he was plunged into a bath of ice. What had felt like hope and love only moments before was now a feeling of dread and guilt. Once the light had died down enough for Heath to open his eyes, the first thing he wanted to do was lie down and give up.

It was as if the physical embodiment of night had taken over the church. Where sunlight had been pouring in through the pane glass windows and illuminating the room in a colourful grow, a layer of vapory mist now hovered. The only source of light came from the enormous window behind the two, a thick beam of moonlight shone through the window and landed directly on the two tributes. The room was now ice cold, and Heath found himself longing for the thick, woolen jumper he had discarded the moment he realized he was in the games.

Willow was now curled up into a ball, facing Heath so that there was no strain on her wrist. She was shivering profusely, eyes still held shut tightly and face streaked with tears.

"Willow," He hissed. A puff of smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, momentarily surprising the boy as his companion cracked open an eye, "We have to go. Now,"

"I don't want to," She whispered, "I just want to sleep,"

"That's how they want you to feel!" Heath snapped, and he began tugging on the handcuffs, "You have to move!"

"No," She moaned, and rolled over, trapping his handcuffed wrist beneath her stomach.

"Willow!" He growled, shaking her shoulder, "Willow!"

The girl gave him no response, however, something else did. A whispering sound infiltrated the room, bombarding Heath's ears with a sound too coherent to just be wind yet too low and wispy to make any sense. Willow didn't seem like she was going to be moving anytime soon, and Heath was nowhere near strong enough to carry her. What was he going to do?

Then he saw the knife. It had embedded itself in the pages of the bible, the tip piercing through the thick layer of chapters right through to the hilt. He briefly wondered how it had ended up there instead of lodging itself in the body of the angel, when he realized now was not the time to question it.

Heath maneuvered his body around the handcuff until he was in a crouched position, yet he was still too far away and far too low to reach the handle. Twisting around so that his back was to the pedestal, he wrapped his free and around the trapped one and began to pull. It took a lot of effort, and he hissed in pain as the cuffs dug into the already pronounced cuts, reopening the wounds so that blood began to trickle across his flesh.

The whispering was growing louder and sounding faster, it was as if there were a hundred invisible ghosts spinning around and tormenting him from beyond the veil. He managed to pull Willow a few feet forwards, so that he was close enough to reach the book. Slowly but surely, he stood and extended a hand towards the blade, only to have his fingertips brush the very end of the handle. The whispers were now clear and loud enough for Heath to decipher a select number of words such as 'Demon' and 'Hellfires'. The despair and feeling of utter failure that should have made him want to curl up into a ball and die only motivated him further. Yanking harshly on the cuffs, Heath screamed as the cuffs tore through his flesh, Willow let out a soft whimper as she was pulled harshly across the stage. Heath's fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife and with a grunt of effort, he pulled the blade free. Whipping around frantically, Heath crouched down and dragged the tip of the blade across the exposed flesh of the girls hip, digging deep enough to draw blood.

Willow screamed in pain and anger and shot up into a sitting position, and before Heath could offer an explanation, his head was snapping back from the force of a punch.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She shrieked, pulling back her fist as if she were ready to deal Heath a third black eye.

"I had to do something!" Heath cried, shying away from the fist and covering his freshly bruised eye, "You were just lying there!"

"And you should have left me!" Willow snarled.

"Oh! Wow! What an incredible idea!" Heath snapped, and raised his bleeding wrist, "We're chained together, idiot!"

Willow scowled, but did not answer. Instead, she stood and yanked Heath to his feet. The whispering suddenly stopped the moment they were on their feet, plunging the church into an eerie silence.

"We have to get out of here," Heath whispered.

"Oh, I am afraid the two of you aren't going anywhere!" A dark voice boomed. And then the stage burst into flames.

 **Kelani Richards - District Ten**

Kelani's bare feet slapped the cool tile of the bathroom floor with much more force than she had intended, breath catching in her throat as she slammed the door closed. Stealth had never been one of Kelani's stronger attributes; attacking problems head on with speed and force had always been her method of dealing with what she could not outwit. But the intruder that had infiltrated the luxurious mansion that had become an oversized prison cell was not a foe Kelani could outrun, or outwit.

Whoever was toying with her was always two steps ahead; able to somehow slip in and out of rooms with the stealth of a fox. Kelani had become so rattled that she rarely let go of her deadly curved sword, and had retreated to the depths of the library, attempting to keep her fear at bay by burying herself in book after book in the only place the sound of that dreaded music box didn't reach.

Kelani had never been much of a reader before; the task felt too mundane to keep her hyperactive mind distracted for too long. But, under the current circumstances, there was no better escape. Her feet felt frozen as they fell on the lush warmth of the red carpet that ran the length of the hall; she had left her shoes in the living room, and she dared not enter any of the rooms where her pursuer could be crouching behind a stray piece of furniture, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Hundreds of painted eyes fell on the girl as she moved down the passage, arms folded in against her chest and steps falling shorter and shorter as she peered at the portraits looming over her on either wall. There numerous works of art in the mansion unlike anything she had seen before, such masterpieces had never been present in her small home. Of course, her father had pressed his wife to help liven up the house with works of renowned capitol painters such as Sydney Beuxaton or Hestia Polis. Her father was a true connoisseur of fancy and valuable works, yet he had never possessed the money nor the permission from his wife to own much at all.

Of course, that did not truly stop him. Kelani had once stumbled across her father loading a bust of one of District Twelves most famous tributes, Comet Rowena, into the back of his truck. Comet Rowena had been Kelani's idol for a good portion of her life, she was known as one of the most daring contestants in recent years, often daring to tango with the biggest of brutes and coming out unscathed in her own games. Without killing a single tribute herself, yet leading many to their deaths, Comet was the favourite to win right up until she found herself bludgeoned by an unremembered brute from District Eight. She had thought the bust was going to be a gift from father to daughter; why else would he be handling it on the other side of town? So she remained hidden and watched as he drove away, and Kelani never saw that bust again.

She thought this mansion was her father's dream house; he had designed their humble home in such an old fashioned manner with what little he had. Her mother loathed it, but Kelani adored what her father had done. It was acts like this that made Kelani's like for her father soar over the love for her mother; despite his business trips that would often leave Kelani alone with her mother and brother for weeks on end.

The paintings that bore down on Kelani that depicted all sorts of people and scenery. A lush meadow peppered with yellow wildflowers, home to a number of grazing cows. The towering and infamous capital training centre; a building Kelani would only ever witness through the form of television or painting. A woman standing atop a large seashell, stark with only her flowing her and arms to cover herself with, on the shore of a beach. A woman to her right was brandishing a polkadotted blanket, while a man who was sporting a set of feathery wings flew with a woman in his arms off to the right. These paintings looked as if they originated from all ages and time periods, yet none would catch Kelani's attention like the picture of the pale blonde in the white dress.

This was the only painting in the hall that was labeled with a plaque, a golden plate that read Liberty Cavalli and a date of birth. She stood facing forwards, hair flowing behind her like a tsunami of gold; dazzling blue eyes contrasting nicely with the paleness of her skin. It was really a beautiful depiction, so why did it leave Kelani with a bad taste in her mouth? Why was it that she felt as if she had seen that girl somewhere before?

Kelani quickened her pace as she passed the painting of the young girl, slipping through the open large double doors and flinching as the faint tune of _Pop Goes the Weasel_ began to play once again. She could think only of those sparkling blue eyes as she navigated her way through the labyrinth of books; music growing fainter and fainter until she could hear nothing but her own, short breaths and thundering heart.

It took her a short while to relocate her little set up, a stack of various books she had specifically chosen from the shelves sitting in the middle of an aisle, while another book was splayed open closer to a towering bookcase, neighbour to a plate hosting a half-eaten sandwich and a glass of orange juice.

She paused as she stepped within reach of the book she had been reading; which was no longer open to the page she had been reading. In fact, it was not even the same book she had been reading. The one she had buried herself in before had been titled _Everlost,_ yet as she kicked the cover closed, she was faced with the haunting titled of _Surprise, You're Dead!_

The library suddenly took on a frosty chill as Kelani stared down at the cover of blood red; a foggy window splashed with crimson and playing host to the shadow of two hands pressed against the glass. The picture was haunting, and the sound of a creaking floorboard from somewhere behind sent the girl whipping around and swinging her curved sword wildly while screaming, "STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

But she found herself alone upon opening her eyes, staring at nothing but an endless stretch of books and carpet. In an attempt to calm down and convince herself that her mind was only playing tricks, Kelani retreated to her little set up and sat down beside her sandwich and glass of juice. A red rug that had been used as a sitting blanket before she had left for the bathroom was now wrapped around her trembling shoulders, and using the tip of her sword, she pushed the intruding book away. As she leaned forwards and reached for the next book on the stack, a thick novel titled _A Storm of Swords_ , she saw a second foreign object lying on the floor beside her.

Her heart was in her throat as she reached out and scooped up what appeared to be a beaded necklace with her index finger, allowing the jewelry to slide down to her knuckle as she retracted her arm to inspect the item. An involuntary squeak escaped her mouth as she saw the secret this pearly white necklace held, dropping the item and pulling her knees away from it. There was no pretending what the intent for this necklace had been, and Kelani found herself wondering what would have happened had her captor not dropped what may be their only weapon. How close had she been to being strangled by the very necklace that now sat inches from her feet? The necklace that played host to a number of deadly metal spikes, one on each bead. A necklace that was already dripping with an unmistakable red substance. Blood.

 **Willow Drake - District One**

If Heath hadn't thrown himself backwards, Willow Drake would have gone up in flames. Literally pulled from the line of fire, Willow found herself tumbling head-over-heels as she fell a short distance from the stage to the church floor, landing in an uncomfortable position on top of Heath with their cuffed hands caught somewhere in between.

That feeling of despair was still wedged somewhere deep within Willow, a poison flowing through her veins that weakened her mental stability and whispered fantasies about giving up and letting go in her ear. But that flaring and insistent pain flowing from the bloody gash in her hip gave her strength, allowing her to push herself into a slouched position with Heath wavering at her side.

The icy mist of despair was singed away by a wall of pure heat emitting from the orange flames that were flickering centre stage. The fire was strangely beautiful, the bright flames danced under the light of the moon, tendrils beckoning for the pair to step forwards. Willow had already been fooled by one apparition in this church, she was not about to succumb to another.

But with her companion still entranced by the flames; and Willow unable to locate the red exit, she could only stand and watch with her index finger scratching the gap between her pointer and thumb as the fire grew in intensity. The pair were forced backwards as the heat escalated alongside it, her nervous gesture suddenly not enough comfort.

Flames licked at the base of the podium, snaking their way up and around the wood until the black cased bible on top was blazing. As if granted a mind of it's own, the fire died all over the stage at once, until the holy book was the only thing fueling the inferno. And then the flames exploded.

Willow screamed and ran for cover as numerous embers hit her exposed flesh, a particularly painful one burning a mark into the skin between her nose and upper lip. Heath had only a split second to react as Willow vaulted herself over the nearest pew, landing in a crouch on the other side as orange droplets fell all around them in a shower of fire. Heath's landing had not been as graceful; his foot had caught on the back of the wooden pew, flipping him over so that he hit the floor chest first.

"A little warning would be nice," Heath hissed in her ear as he picked himself up. Willow pressed a finger to her lips and scowled at the insufferable nuisance, and dragged him down beside her as the flames burned the last of their lifeline and spluttered from existence, plunging the church once more into an icy darkness. The high pitched and whispy sound of a hundred voices whispering dark and evil phrases in her ear returned as well; creating the illusion that she was merely caught in a gale on a rainy day. But not everything about the misty darkness was the same as it had been before; when the flames had flickered out and opened the gateway for those demonic whispers, something else came along with it.

The steady beat of heavy wings flapping could be heard above all else. The whispers were like voices in the background while that flush of a feathery appendage beating was the music playing through earbuds pushed deeply inside of Willow's ears. She could almost feel the force of it above her head; loose strands of hair would flap about wildly in a flurry of wind that was anything but natural. The wind brought with it a feeling of dread, and just as before Willow found herself reflecting on every bad act she had committed in her short life, and that list was growing with each passing day.

Willow had never been a nice girl back home, and mean was not an adjective used by those he knew her either, it just did simply not fit. No, vicious, cruel, and nasty were the words used by family members and former friends who could no longer stand the darkness that resided deep within the girl. She had no illusions that any sort of god would take pity on her, not after the numerous beatings that often landed both children and adults alike in hospital. Not after the numerous beatings that filled her with a thrill unlike any other. Willow Drake did not deserve any pity or love from others, or any affection from a bearded man above, but surely this was not the way she was going to die. Surely she would be saved from this abomination that the gamemakers had created. Surely she was safe from the devil.

The story came back to her the moment she peered over the back of the pew; a very small and insignificant mention that not many would remember. The man on stage did not look much like a demon, in fact, the only indicator that he was anything but human was those large, black, feathery wings that kept him aloft on the stage.

"Is that another Angel?" Heath asked, his fingers wrapping around her forearm for support as he hauled himself into a kneeling position beside her.

"No," Willow breathed, watching as the man's eyes flickered from brown to a magma orange and a shark-like grin carved its way onto his face, "It's a demon,"

This demon was not one mentioned in the bible, in fact, he was only referred to in a book so unknown that it had become her mother's most treasured possession. The _Lesser Key of Solomon_ was an ancient spell book on demonology. She remembered her mother using the tomb as a threat when she was younger; an attempt to strike fear into a child who turned out to be a demon herself.

Willow remembered the story her mother told her the night she was dragged home at the hands of two peacekeepers; men who had found her dumping the body of Renly's Droginger's cat in a dumpster. Her parents had flipped. They had screamed for what had felt like hours until Willow was finally banished to her room without dinner. She had fallen asleep in a fit of tears and rage, and when she woke an hour later she could hear her mother sobbing through the wood of her bedroom door.

"We are good people," She had whimpered, "We are a good and righteous family. I don't understand why she's like this. Where did we go wrong?"

That had been like a knife to her chest. Willow had always loved her parents, but it was on that day that she learnt that, someday soon, her parents would cease to love her. So she had decided to stop first.

Willow was still barred in her room the following morning and forbidden breakfast, and it wasn't until lunch time that her mother finally unlocked the door and entered the room. She was carrying the book, a big black tome, under her arm and had stared down at her daughter with a grave expression. She had told Willow that, if she did not change her ways, then she was going to end up in hell. She had told her own daughter that she was on the path to pain and misery, and then told her the story of Amy.

Amy was the commander of thirty-six legions of demons, and would always appear as a flame before taking human form. Gardenia Drake had made an attempt to strike down her daughters acts of evil by telling her that those armies would come for her if she did not change her ways. But by then, Willow had already made the decision to never try and make her parents happy. It was easier to have them hate her for herself then love her for something she wasn't.

There was no mistaking that the man staring down at her was Amy; the demon was an accurate representation of the drawing that had been sketched in her mothers book. Her mother had warned her that one day Amy would come to take Willow away. If only she had listened.

"Willow," The man purred in an almost catlike manner. The voice was the farthest from human than anything Willow had ever heard, it appeared to sound from every which direction, and was so deep and scaly that she was surprised that Heath hadn't asked the demon to clear his throat, "How nice it is to finally meet,"

Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled, Heath only just managed to wrap his hands around her waist to keep her steady before she hit the floor. The demon laughed. It was such a horrific noise, Willow found herself unable to describe how immense the fear induced by the laughter. She could not be sure if Heath could feel the same terror for she could not see his face. Her only hint at what he was feeling was the sudden tightening of his arms around her waist.

"While I had anticipated your fear, I am shocked by your surprise," The demon growled, his lips parting slightly to reveal numerous rows of razor sharp teeth, "I would have thought you knew this day would come eventually,"

"Do you know this guy, or something?" Heath shakily whispered in her ear, "Because if your pen pals or something, it would be nice if you could tell him to use a door next time,"

The demon must have overheard Heath's attempt to cover his own fear with humour, for the hall was suddenly filled with a deep boom of laughter. The pew Willow was pressed up against vibrated softly, and for a moment she thought she could see dust rain down from the ceiling in the moonlight.

"You humans amuse me," Amy boomed, "If only I could bring you with me, child. You would make a great fool!"

"Well, I'm just honoured," Heath said weakly, his entire body now trembling. Willow lightly pushed him away as she righted herself against the pew, resuming the nervous scratching of the space between her thumb and index finger.

"What do you want?" Willow called meekly. The cry was just an attempt to buy time; she hoped that the demon could not see her eyes dashing every which way, hoping to find the hatch they were to escape through. She could only see two from where she was positioned; the one they had entered through at the very back of the hall, and one positioned directly behind Amy. Neither of them possessed the red trait they needed. Assuming there were two other hatches in the room, they must be concealed by the darkness. How were they supposed to reach them before Amy killed them?

"You know exactly why I am here, Willow Drake," Amy boomed, "You have been promised to me. You were warned of the consequences of your vile nature, and now it is time to pay the price,"

He began to rise higher and higher as he spoke, so that his entire body was now in view of the pair crouched behind the pew. His formal and so very human attire made the demon that much scarier, the black suit and red tie made him appear so real. So human.

"Come to me, child," Amy growled, pointing a finger in her direction, "Come to me and suffer for all eternity,"

"Wow, that's a really tempting offer," Heath said loudly at her side, "What can I do to achieve such enlightenment?"

"What are you doing?" Willow hissed. Heath only responded with an annoying joke. The demon laughed again, however this time it lacked its amusement.

"Do not play with me, child," Amy boomed, "You are lucky to be free of eternal damnation. Treasure the gift you have been given, and you will never run into me again,"

Something cold pressed against Willow's cuffed hands. With a risky glance down, she inhaled sharply when she saw the bloody throwing knife being pressed into her hand.

"What if I want eternal damnation?" Heath stalled. Amy didn't answer right away, he appeared taken aback by such a foolish question.

"You wish to suffer for all of eternity?"

"Maybe," Heath shrugged, nudging Willow's arm. A cold bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck; how was she supposed to do this? She was no expert at throwing knives, she had never picked one up before yesterday. She had improved with a minor amount of practice, but she was far from an expert. How was she to hit a demon from this distance while trembling so vigorously?

"Maybe?" The demon repeated.

"Maybe," Heath said, nodding, "Does eternal damnation come with a free dinner?"

A flash illuminated the church from beyond the paned depiction of Jesus, and in that split second, she saw it. A hatch on the right side of the room, situated beneath a red paned window. That was the way they were supposed to go. The brief flash of light was followed by a boom of thunder so violent that the entire church shook. Heath toppled over and keeled into Willow's shoulder as the floor quaked beneath their feet. Amy's eyes caught fire, literally, and his voice sounded as if it were echoing through hundreds of megaphones as he shouted, "You dare toy with me child? You dare treat a being such as myself as if we are equals? You had your chance to escape with your life, but now you will perish inside the lord's own place of worship. God cannot save you now,"

His body began to twist and grow as bones moved and grew in different places. His skin took on a green and lumpy quality; nails akin to talons grew from his fingers and those needle like teeth stretched into fangs larger than a German Shepards.

"Now," Heath hissed, standing up and pulling Willow to her feet. There was not a second to spare, the moment Willow was standing up right, she pulled her arm backwards and threw the knife at the demon with surprising precision. The blade sailed directly towards his chest, and for a moment, it seemed like it would hit.

And then suddenly, the blade passed right through him. It was as if he were just a shadow, an appiration. Amy laughed as the blade clattered noisly against the window, and Heath let out a choked sob at his side, "We're doomed,"

"No," Willow said suddenly, "We're not,"

Heath cocked an eyebrow at her, and she hurried to explain, "If we can't hit or touch him, then he can't hit or touch us. There is no way he can harm us!"

Heath suddenly screamed and shoved Willow to the side as a fireball the size of a soccer ball shot over their heads, the immense heat scorching the side of her face. She landed butt first on the floor with Heath crashing over her a second later; skulls cracking as they smacked together painfully.

"That felt very real," Heath breathed, his face inches from hers. She nodded frantically and lightly pushed him off of her. The ball of flames extinguished a moment after shooting into the shadows, and for a moment, Willow caught sight of the fourth and final hatch on their side of the room.

"Come on!" Willow cried, loud enough for the demon to hear, "I can see an exit!"

Pulling Heath up via the cuffs so that they were both in a crouched position, they ran under the cover of the pew towards the far aisle as Amy laughed, "There is no escaping me!"

"You could have mentioned that he shoots fireballs!" Heath hissed in her ear as they stumbled out into the open aisle and continued their dash for the shadows.

"I didn't know he could shoot fire balls!" Willow scowled, "Do I look like a demon expert to you?"

"Honestly?" Heath asked, "Yes,"

Another fireball exploded over a pew to their right, bathing the wood in flames and once again showering the pair in orange embers. The two slipped into the safety of the shadows, however Willow had not truly anticipated how dark it would be. She could only see a few feet in front of her, and there was no way of knowing how well Amy could see in the dark. There was very little written on the demon commander, and none of what she did know was useful.

They ran passed another three pews before Willow stopped and yanked Heath along as she ran back towards the centre aisle. Heath was already starting to fall behind, her wrist screamed in protest as the metal cuffs dug into her skin and her the flaring of the fresh cut on her hip was not helping.

"The longer you run, the worse your punishment shall be!" Amy boomed. Behind them, another fireball exploded as it made contact with the wall, and Willow resisted the urge to throw her fist in the air in triumph. He had fallen for her trick, and shot his flames in the direction of the hatch they had been heading for.

They made it to the centre aisle, and Willow dragged Heath along the carpet until she was sure she was in line with the hatch, and then ran through the rows of pews towards it. Amy howled something unintelligible, and then the floor in front of Willow burst into flames. She skidded to a halt just in time; thankfully, Heath was able to prevent crashing into Willow and knocking her over, but that did not stop the careful bump that forced her to take a step forwards.

She screamed in pain and leapt backwards as her shoe caught alight; Amy laughed once again as Willow danced about in an attempt to douse the flames. To make things even worse, the pair were still two rows away from the hatch they needed, and their path was now being blocked by a growing fire that repelled the shadows as pew after pew succumb to the flames.

"Leave the shoe!" Heath hissed; Willow was too scared out of her mind to disobey. As she slipped the blazing shoe from her foot, Heath climbed up onto the pew in an attempt to get over. She was about to follow when a fireball shot over her head and hit the bag on his back. She screamed as the fabric burst into flames. Heath fell over the back of the pew and Willow cried out in pain as the cuffs pulled her forwards. She wasted no time in sliding herself over the back of the pew, dropping beside the boy who was now lying face down with his bag and shirt blazing and face thick with ash.

"Heath!" She screamed as she attempted to snuff out the flames with her hands; a bad decision as she was soon shrieking and pulling her burnt hands away. She was almost unsure on what to do, when she saw the lid of her water bottle sticking out of the bags open pocket. Snatching the plastic bottle out, she frantically unscrewed the cap and dumped the water over the spreading flames, briefly sighing in relief as the flames spluttered out.

"Heath!" She whispered, "Heath, get up!"

He gave no response. He was alive, she knew that. His chest continued to rise and fall, and there was no canon signifying his death, but he was definitely no longer conscious. He must have hit his head in the fall.

Delving a hand into the back, she fumbled around for anything that could break the cuffs. Her fingers brushed against some plastic, a cushion, and the dusty pages of a book, but there was nothing that could free her from the chains. She had also thrown away the only thing she could have used to cut off his hand.

With no other option, she scooped the boy up into her arms and stood, not even bothering to look at Amy as she leapt over the pew behind them and landed on her feet in row that would lead her to the hatch she needed.

"You cannot escape, child!" The demon boomed, "You will soon join your friend and burn in hellfire until the end of time,"

"Sorry, but I have other engagements," She called, taking a page out of Heath's book as she dashed towards the hatch. The fire that had been spreading across the pews was already in her path, yet she did not slow as she dashed through the inferno. Flames licked at her bare legs, but she bit through the pain and carried on. Another fireball hit the ground behind her, but she payed it no mind.

Propping Heath up on her left knee and holding his waist with the same arm, she used her freed right hand to turn the wheel of the hatch. It did not give the resistance most others did, and opened without complaint.

"Maybe you'll have better luck next time," Willow called back to the demon as she heaved Heath back into her arms and clambered through the hatch.

"Oh, child, next time will be sooner than you think," Amy laughed as the hatch swung closed behind her.


	9. Day Two: A Truth and a Promise

**Aldon Crowell - District Five**

"I swear to god, if you climb any further, I am going to kick you off," Malcolm snarled from above as he twisted around to find his pursuer still slowly picking his way up the bedpost ladder.

"No. You won't," Aldon said simply, reaching out and clasping the cool metal of the next rung. They were nearing the top of the mattress now, only a few feet stood between Aldon and safety. One wrong step could send the boy plummeting and his life would be ended with a sickening splat. One misstep from Malcolm would result in two deaths in a matter of seconds.

Predictably, Malcolm did not follow through with his threat, and continued climbing up in a brooding silence. Aldon did not crack a smile at his mild victory; his face remained as blank as ever. The boy had been making similar threats over the course of the day. Upon recovering from whatever breakdown he had been having that dreaded hall of mirrors, the first thing he had done was punched Aldon and stalked away. Aldon had followed, persisting through the numerous threats and promises that he would suffer. He had seen what kind of violence Malcolm Edison was capable of, and if he were going to kill Aldon, he would have done it already.

Malcolm reached the top ahead of Aldon; the latter had been slowed by the weight of the spear hanging from his waist. Malcolm's mace hung dangerously from his bag, where it had been tied to the strap and now dangled directly above Aldon's exposed face. If he was going to fear anything, it would be that mace falling and crushing his face. He wondered how bad that outcome would truly be. Humiliating, yes, but at least he wouldn't be around to deal with it. His father, on the other hand, would have to endure the taunts and reminders from his drinking buddies every other day. If anything were going to break Aldon's face into a grin, it would be the fantasy of his father's life going to hell.

Malcolm soon vanished as he reached the top of the ladder; tipping onto the mattress and disappearing from sight. Aldon longed to join him; his muscles were groaning with each movement and his arms felt as if they were going to snap off. When he too finally reached the end of the ladder, his fall from rough metal to the soft fabric of the mattress was like dipping into a warm bath on the coldest of winter days. But the plug was pulled and the water drained away the moment he opened his eyes and found the spiky bulb of a mace inches from his nose.

"I told you to leave me alone," Malcolm snarled, his expression stormy and intimidating, and fortunately for Aldon, he has a lot of experience with threats. Both spoken and unspoken, "Why are you still following me?"

"Because you want me to," Aldon said, casually propping himself up on his elbows. It was difficult to ignore the fact that the very tips of his shoes were dangling over the edge of the enormous bed, but he couldn't allow himself to worry about that now.

"Want you to?" Malcolm scoffed, "I don't think there's anybody I want dead more than you,"

"I understand that," Aldon said, his voice deep and void of emotion, "But if you were going to kill me, you would have already done so,"

"There's nothing stopping me now," He growled, baring his teeth down at Aldon, who only stared blankly in return.

"Yes there is," Aldon said, "I saved your life,"

"You didn't save my life," Malcolm snapped, "I would have been fine if you hadn't shown up,"

"You don't believe that," Aldon said. He pulled his dangling shoes away from the edge of the bed and rose to a kneel, lightly tapping the mace away and watching as Malcolm allowed it to drop to his side.

"I should kill you," Malcolm said, his voice now lacking that aura of certainty that it had possessed a moment ago, "You're a murderer. I saw what you did,"

"We've all done bad things," Aldon said coldly, eyeing the dried and crusty blood stains on Malcolm's pants. Aldon held no fantasy's that he was innocent or some sort of victim. He did not pretend that what he had done had been an accident. Aldon had murdered an innocent boy, and now he had to live with the guilt forever, "But that doesn't mean we are bad people,"

"I didn't kill him myself," Malcolm said softly as he peered down at the stains on his pants, and then he scowled upon returning his gaze to Malcolm, "But he deserved what he got; and you deserve it too. You're a bad person, Aldon, and you know that better than anyone. Don't try to kid yourself,"

"I wasn't talking about me," Aldon said, "You certainly have a right to be mad. After all I've done to you, I wouldn't blame you for killing me. I have not been kind,"

"You have not been kind?" Malcolm spat, "You made my life a living hell! Do you know how many bruises and scars I have because of you and your friends? Do you know how many nights I went to sleep wishing I wouldn't wake up because of people like you? No, you haven't been kind Aldon. I hate you, I hate you more than anything,"

Aldon did not flinch at the words, yet he desperately wanted too. It was not easy to hear how badly you have affected somebody, and it's even worse knowing that, no matter how sorry you are, you cannot fix the unjustifiable damage you have caused. Aldon's eyes drifted to the small red scar that lingered beneath Malcolm's left ear. He could remember the day the boy received it so clearly; how could he not? It was Aldon who created it.

 _Aldon smiled as he saw Malcolm Edison push through the large doors of the hospital. He felt Derrick Hydrant smack his arm eagerly with one arm; the other snaking around the outstretched marble arm of the President Eiffel statue the boys had climbed onto. It gave them a perfect view of the square; they could see both Malcolm's reaction to the protest and the faces of angry oppositionists who were there to remind the boy that, whatever he was, it was not natural._

 _Castiel Orson, the boy who was crouched to Aldon's left, hooted loudly as the protesters raised their signs, his voice blending in perfectly with the sudden uproar of jeering men and women who all shouted incoherent insults at freak exiting the hospital. Aldon could see the colour drain from the little monsters face as he was met with such a large crowd; Malcolm quickly angled his head and drew a black hood over his head while quickening his pace._

 _Aldon couldn't help but laugh as a heavyset woman stepped into the boys path and screamed 'Abomination' in Malcolm's face, the noise rippling through the crowd as Malcolm stepped around the woman and continued down the path to where his parents car sat on the road. Carrie and Noel Edison looked anything but comfortable as they watched the torment their only child was receiving, yet they did nothing to stop it._

" _Aldon!" Castiel snickered, pressing something cold and hard into his hand. Aldon peered down at his friend; face breaking into a grin when he saw the heavy stone in his hand. Wrapping his arm around President Eiffel's sturdy bicep, Aldon stood and balanced himself on the statue's pedestal. He felt powerful, standing so high off the crowd with an army of protesters at his feet. He could see the back of his father's head in the front ranks, fist punching the air as his face grew red with each word he shouted. He was going to make his dad proud._

 _Pulling back his arm, Aldon screamed a booming, "HEY FREAK!" and threw the stone with all his might. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but the last thing he had anticipated was Malcolm turning to look at him. Aldon felt his grin faltered as his eyes met Malcolm's puffy red ones, and it was as if he were truly seeing into his soul for the first time. A truly broken, tortured soul. And then the stone smashed into the side of his face._

Somehow, even after committing the ultimate act of murder, throwing that rock was still Aldon's biggest regret. He remembered the flurry of flying objects that followed; forcing the boy to break out into a run towards his parents car to avoid serious damage. There was no possible way for Aldon to make it up to Malcolm; but he could certainly try.

"You have every right to hate me," Aldon said slowly, eyes lingering on that red scar, "You wouldn't be the only one,"

"Are you trying to score some pity?" Malcolm sneered.

"No," Aldon said, "But I want you to believe me when I say that I'm sorry. I want you to believe me when I say I want to help you,"

"I don't need your help," Malcolm huffed.

"If you didn't need my help, I wouldn't be here," Aldon said. Malcolm scowled, stormy grey eyes flashing dangerously. Aldon glanced briefly at the deadly mace, for a split second fearing that the weapon would be bludgeoning him in a matter of seconds. But Malcolm merely allowed the mace to continue its useless swinging at his side; the shorter boy turning slightly that Aldon was now staring up at a narrow shoulder.

"Fine," He spat, nose wrinkling only slightly at the boy on his knees and lips parting just enough to flash some crooked and dangerously sharp teeth, "You can help me out. But don't expect me to return the favour,"

"I don't expect it," Aldon murmured as Malcolm turned his back to Aldon and awkwardly began to stumble his way across an ocean of crinkle blanket towards a towering pillar of black and white. The action in itself solidified Aldon's certainty that Malcolm knew he meant the boy no harm. Not any more.

 **Darcy Retorre - District Six**

Three days after Darcy's tenth birthday, he had been robbed. Not of a physical possession, no simple thief could have shattered Darcy's entire world and changed his life forever just by snatching a few coins from his pocket. This person had stolen his youth; taken away his innocence and beaten it to a pulp, breaking it beyond repair. The day Darcy Retorre had been kidnapped was the day his childhood had disappeared forever.

The four months he was locked away in a cold and dingy basement had been the worst of his life; often he feared going to sleep at night for he would return to that prison in his dreams. Being locked in the arena was, surprisingly, an improvement. While still a terrifying situation with only a sliver of hope to cling onto, Darcy found himself presented with a freedom that he hadn't felt in years.

The ability to move was the biggest difference from his basement prison, where he had spent most of his time stuffed into a cage or handcuffed to a pipe. The food was also better, the cold chicken and fresh pears that Quinn had salvaged from Phelan's supplies was heavenly, and tasted a lot better than the dog food he had lived on for months. It was this sense of freedom, deciding which way he could go and what food he could eat, that was keeping him sane.

Which is why, he did not agree with Quinn's idea of keeping their captives tied up, even if they risked being attacked if they were to untie them. He could at least understand the restraints on Wolf, he was wild and unpredictable and could strike at any moment. Phelan was acting tepid, and Darcy doubted that he would do anything other than continue sewing in his corner should they cut the bounds on his ankles. Grant, on the other hand, was a different issue altogether. Darcy knew nothing about him, except for the fact that he had apparently tamed Wolf to act as his guard dog, and snored loudly while sleeping. But surely, he would not dare try anything against three armed tributes if they were to untie him; four, if they also freed Phelan.

But he did not voice these concerns to Quinn or Brody, because he knew they would not understand. They would say that it was for their safety, that they risked their lives if they untied their captives; but Darcy did not want to inflict what he had suffered on another living person. Ever.

"He's been out for a while," Brody commented as he bent his knee and pressed his shoulder up against the wall Darcy was pressed up against; nodding in Grant's direction.

"Yeah," Darcy said, squirming in his position and trying to release the tension in his muscles. He had been sitting in that position for over an hour, with Quinn's head resting in his lap. He wasn't sure how long the girl usually napped for, but he hoped she would wake soon, "Should we check up on him?"

"If you think I did any permanent damage, you're wrong," Phelan said from the other side of the room, not looking up and instead remaining bent over his piece of fabric, "He'll be fine,"

"Since when are you a doctor?" Brody smirked. His jab at Phelan was good natured; the one advantage of Quinn being asleep was that she was no longer making fun of and insulting Phelan at every opportunity. Not that he was any better than she was, if they were intending on keeping Phelan with them for much longer, he was going to go insane.

"Don't need to be," Phelan grunted, speaking around a needle that was placed carefully between his lips, "Only hit him hard enough to knock him out,"

"Shouldn't we check? Just to be sure?" Darcy squeaked. Phelan made him nervous, despite his recent lax nature. Those mentions of his kidnapping stung, and since then he was plagued by flashes of that dark basement and the echoes of sobbing and screams of the girl who had been with him.

"You can if you want," Phelan said, "But he's fine,"

"I'll do it," Brody said, and Darcy caught him shoot a stern look in Phelan's direction. The two had a brief stare-down before Phelan finally sighed and turned away, pulling the needle from his mouth and placing the cloth at his side. Brody broke out into a grin and moved over to inspect Grant, and Darcy shut his eyes with a groan and leant his head up against the wall.

His hands were even more uncomfortable than his legs, he longed to reposition them from where they lay flat on the floor. He had borrowed Brody's thick jumper to cover his exposed forearms so that he wouldn't electrocute the sleeping Quinn. He didn't quite understand what had happened upon pressing that button; it didn't quite make sense, and he was not about to risk testing it out. He wondered if that electricity was still there, coursing through his body and waiting for a chance to strike. Would it be inside of him forever? If he made it out of the arena, would he be left unable to touch anybody forever? Somehow, that cage felt more like a prison than that basement ever had.

"Mind if I sit?" A deep voice said. Darcy opened his eyes to find Phelan towering over him, awkwardly positioned with his ankles bound together. His wrists sat pressed together against his waist, as if his wrists were still tied with rope. Darcy swallowed and nodded, and failed miserably at concealing a smile as the boy comically hopped around until his back was pressed against the wall.

"That was not easy," Phelan grunted as he promptly slid into a sitting position, half-heartedly grinning at Darcy.

"Didn't look it," Darcy mumbled, glancing down at the resting Quinn in his lap. He hoped she would not wake just now, for he was not in the mood for another argument, "You should have just left your hands tied,"

"How can I sew with my hands tied?" Phelan chuckled.

"Why would you want to sew in the first place?" Darcy asked.

"Because it keeps me calm," Phelan said, looking away and staring at a space on the floor a few feet away, "Distracts me from the anger,"

Darcy peeked at the piece of fabric in the boy's lap, and was entirely shocked by what he saw. The cloth depicted what looked like a beach, with setting sun surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours. It was, in all aspects, beautiful, and was unlike anything Darcy had ever thought would come from sewing.

"Where did you get all those colours?" Darcy blurted out suddenly, flushing red as Phelan shot him a scowl and folded his cloth over, "S-sorry, I didn't mean to look at it, but you've been working on it for hours and I just thought that I-"

"It's fine," Phelan sighed, and flattened the cloth across his knees, stretching it free of any creases, "The thread I have can change into whatever colour I want. It's really cool, actually. I would have loved to have one of these back home,"

"It's weird that they included sewing stuff in the arena," Darcy commented.

"I thought it was put in here so that people could mend their ripped clothes," Phelan said, peering down at his thread, "But it's weird that they would bother creating this one that can change colour at will. I don't know, I guess I'm just lucky,"

"Yeah," Darcy frowned. His eyes flickered between the beach depiction and Phelan's face, "But it does seem like a bit of a coincidence that you're the one that ended up with it. After all, it's not like many kids our age actually know how to sew,"

"I guess it is a bit weird," Phelan admitted, "But I'm just grateful I found it,"

Darcy nodded, and leant back against the wall again. Quinn groaned and squirmed in his lap, and for a moment he feared she was brush up against his exposed stomach as his shirt pulled back a little to expose his bare stomach while rolling over. Thankfully, she settled without touching him, and he released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Phelan, who had been watching him from the corner of his eye, sighed and placed his cloth off to the side before twisting around so that his chest was facing Darcy.

He sucked in a deep breath and said, "Look, I want to apologize for what I said earlier. About your kidnapping. It was really out of line and I shouldn't have said anything, and well, I understand if you hate me. I would too, and I don't want to make excuses, but when I get angry, I really lose control and. . . I'm just sorry,"

"It's okay, really," Darcy said, forcing a watery smile, "I've been through worse, trust me. And you weren't the only one in the wrong. Quinn shouldn't have said what she said either,"

Phelan suddenly barked a laugh, "Look at us, apologizing for a few words in an arena where we should be fighting to the death,"

"It's not like any of us knew we were going to be thrown in here," Darcy said, "I don't think it's quite hit many of us yet,"

"I guess not," Phelan sighed, letting his head fall against his shoulder as a yawn tore across his face. The two sat in silence for a while. Darcy's gaze drifted over to Brody, who was sitting a few inches away from the sleeping Grant. The boy shot Darcy a grin and gave a double thumbs up, before he dropped his eyes back to the resting boy.

"There was never any touching, you know," Darcy said softly to Phelan, low enough so that Brody couldn't hear, "You mentioned something about an old man touching me before. Nothing like that ever happened, I never even saw my captor,"

"Really?" Phelan said, blowing a raspberry and raising his eyebrows, "Who the hell started that rumour then? What about the other stuff? The dog food and the cage?"

Darcy only nodded in response, suddenly taking deep breaths in a dodgy attempt at avoiding some form of flashback. Phelan must have noticed the shift, for he hastily asked another question, "Did you really never know who it was?"

"The one who took me?" Darcy shook his head, "No. The night it happened. . .they came at me from behind. When I woke up, I was in a basement. The people who came to feed me always wore masks, but sometimes I heard their voices. Sometimes it was a man, and sometimes a woman. But you know the weirdest thing? It was as if they hated doing what they did. I remember a few times when the man would whisper the word sorry to me, and other times the woman just cried,"

"But wait, I thought they caught the guy who took you?" Phelan frowned.

Darcy shook his head again, "It was only a cover, to keep people from panicking. Cornelius Wake wasn't a real person,"

"Cornelius Wake?" Phelan's eyes were wide now, "But. . . wasn't it Orson Smith?"

"Who?"

Phelan's eyes drifted off to the side, as if he were looking right at somebody who Darcy couldn't see. When he spoke next, his breath was shaky, "When I was nine years old, my parents were killed on their way home from a dinner. They had been with my grandma at the time, while I was at home with my grandpa. I don't actually know what happened on their way back, grandma never spoke much after that, but the one thing she did say was that she knew the man who had done it. Orson Smith. She wouldn't stop saying it, over and over. I was shunted off to a foster family, but I was still able to keep in contact with them. My grandpa became obsessed with this Orson Smith, and after a while, so did I. A few months before he died, he received word from one of his contacts that Orson Smith had been spotted smuggling something out of District Six,"

"And that something was?"

"You,' Phelan said, "Or at least my grandpa thought so, and he was quite sure of it too. And I believe him, because he also told me why Orson took you,"

"What?" Darcy said, his blood suddenly running cold. All at once, his body began to tingle and his head felt light, as if this could not possibly be real. It was too good to be real, was he finally going to get an answer to the question that had haunted him for so long, "Why did he kidnap me?"

Phelan opened his mouth to answer, but whatever answer he gave was drowned out by the explosion.

 **Tracey Smith - District Six**

Tracey had not anticipated how difficult it would be to make it so long without turning to a substance that could numb her brain and free of her of doubt and worry. She longed for the taste of alcohol, for that burning taste that would wash away her pain. She had never thought of herself as an addict, she merely thought she was doing something to pass the time, such as reading a book or watching TV. But now that she lacked access, she felt as if she would do anything for a drink. Anything.

It was difficult to determine whether or not Ivy McKinnon was a help or a hindrance. On one hand, she provided a needed distraction that was able to capture Tracey's attention and snag her away from the fantasies of drinking herself stupid. On the other hand, Ivy was incredibly irritating. She was so upbeat and happy that it made Tracey feel sick, and it made her feel worse about herself. Why couldn't she put a good spin on anything like that? She'd give anything to be as happy as Ivy. Anything.

"These white rooms are exceptionally calming, don't you think?" Ivy said pleasantly as the two girls crossed the floor of another empty room, "It's truly relaxing. Given the chance, I would like to try meditating in a place like this,"

"Yeah, it's a riot," Tracey said absentmindedly. She was not really paying attention, Ivy often went off on long rants that Tracey could not be bothered keeping up with. Tracey found herself staring at Ivy's handbag as the girl spoke further, and pondered why she would choose such an item over a regular backpack. The sapphire ring on her slender finger really gave off a diva vibe when partnered with the bag.

"Tracey?" Ivy said loudly, nudging the shorter girl's arm. Tracey jumped and only narrowly prevented herself from slamming right into the wall beside the hatch. Ivy let out an elegant laugh, "You should really watch where you are walking,"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," Tracey sighed as Ivy turned the wheel of the hatch and pulled it open, "What were you saying?"

"I asked whether you have considered mediation as a method of escape before?" Ivy said, stepping away from the hatch yet still ensuring she stood between Tracey and the opening, "Surely you have tried more than alcohol?"

"Of course I have," Tracey scoffed, "I've tried drugs as well, but I figured those would get me into more trouble than drinking would,"

"That's not very healthy," Ivy frowned, "I strongly recommend meditation. Really, it will help,"

"Yeah?" Tracey sighed, deciding that at this point, she had no better option, "I'll give it a go. Maybe it will keep me occupied for a few days until I die,"

"Yes, live large while you can," Ivy smiled, and clambered through the open hatch. Tracey couldn't help laugh at the insinuation that meditating was Ivy's idea of 'living large'. Really, Ivy was an interesting girl.

The following room was as empty as the rest, and Tracey couldn't decide whether that was a good or a bad thing. While the only unique room she had come across was the jail cell and peculiarly placed bed; Ivy had described a number of out of place rooms that Tracey was hoping they would stumble across. She was particularly interested in a room that was designed after an ice cream parlour. Tracey may be some dark and brooding girl who is a total rebel and lives a dangerous life, but ice cream has always held a special place in her heart.

Ivy began humming a familiar tune as she crossed the floor, a slightly botched version of _Pop Goes the Weasel_. She had been doing it all day, and when Tracey had inquired, Ivy had simply mentioned that it had been stuck in her head all day. The tune sounded wrong as it bounced effortlessly on the walls around them; such an innocent and childish song didn't belong in a place of such horror and death.

Then, the tune caught in her throat. Ivy's long red hair whipped Tracey in the mouth as she suddenly turned; Tracey spluttered as strands found themselves caught in her mouth.

"Can you not do that!" Tracey snarled as she spat the hair from her mouth. In response, she was given an almost animatronic growl. And it did not come from Ivy.

Now it was Tracey's turn to whip around, stifling a scream in her throat when she what had apparently appeared from thin air. The dog wasn't all that large, it was roughly the size of a greyhound. But where a greyhound baring its fangs may be intimidating, this dog was outright terrifying. It looked like robotic experiment gone wrong, patches of fur had been torn off in a number of places to reveal a thick sheet of metal underneath. A thick, translucent substance dribbled from the dog's open mouth; a set of metallic teeth peeking out of a mouth that had no lips. The dogs face had no fur at all, and the scariest part of all was the creature's eyes. The eyeballs were just as artificial as the rest of the animal, but looked as if they had been designed after a human's. Big, fat marble like objects sat in shallow eye sockets, blood red pupils passing over Tracey as the almost fully visible balls shifted from side to side, emitting whirring sounds as it did so.

"What the fuck is that thing?" Tracey said, her voice barely audible not because she was trying to whisper, but because she was too terrified to raise it any higher.

"It might be okay," Ivy whispered back, "It is not moving. Maybe it will not attack,"

Ivy's stiff shoulders and trembling hands betrayed her attempt at positivity, and at that moment, the robot barked a sound that was scrambled and far from what it should have sounded like. Instead, it sounded like an enormous fork being dragged across and even larger plate. And then the dog opened it's mouth wider, and Tracey screamed and dove for cover as a ball of red light began to form deep within it's throat. Unfortunately, there was no cover to be found. Instead, Tracey found herself pressed up against the left wall while the dog remained facing Ivy, who was still standing in the centre of the room.

"Ivy!" Tracey screamed, but her warning was too little too late. A bright red beam shot from the dog's mouth, burning so hot that Tracey could feel the heat crashing over her from where she sat. Time seemed to slow as the laser shot across the room in the direction of Ivy's frozen face, but to Tracey's astonishment, the beam never hit her. As the red light exploded from the dog's mouth, and even brighter blue light began to shine from Ivy's body, and suddenly the girl was encased in a transparent blue bubble that deflected the laser upon impact. The beam suddenly shot to the left, and Tracey screamed again as the hatch a few feet away exploded in a shower of red light and burning metal.

While the world had appeared to slow as that laser had shot towards Ivy, it now seemed to stop completely in the aftermath of the explosion. Tracey sat with her back pressed tightly against the wall, arms spread out on either side as if bracing for impact; chest heaving and heart thundering. Ivy stood petrified in the middle of the room, staring right into those bright red eyes of the robotic dog, which started back in a terrifying silence. And then the whirring sound came again.

"Ivy!" Tracey shouted; this time she stood and barreled across the room, snagging her companion's wrist and dragging her towards the fresh gaping hole in the wall as the dog fired another laser through the space where the redhead had previously been standing. Tracey was unsure where that blue protection bubble had come from, but they could not count on it saving them again.

Tracey was mildly shocked to find four wide-eyed faces staring back at her as she reached the hole, but there was no time to stop for chit-chat. While ensuring that neither of them would touch the burning hot frame of the hole, Tracey roughly shoved Ivy through and quickly followed, shouting a desperate, "Get down!"

The three nearest to Tracey dropped to the floor at the order; Ivy and Tracey doing the same as another red hot laser shot through the hole. The beam hit a pedestal in the centre of the room that supported a large red button, slicing the marble in half as if it were nothing and knocking the remains over. With hair hanging over her face and eyes looking wilder than ever, Tracey only had a second to take in the vast number of people in the room she had entered. Excluding Ivy and herself, six people already occupied the room. Three lay pressed against the floor nearby, staring at Tracey in horror. She could recognize two of them, Darcy Retorre, one of the most famous children in recent years, and Phelan Krouse, one of the pictures in her platform room had his name scrawled across the back.

On the left side of the room, a savage boy was restrained by a rope that had been wrapped around his neck, keeping him connected to the wheel behind him. Brody Lewis stood over a sleeping Grant Gino on the right side of the room; Tracey recognized both through the same method she knew Phelan through. She also noted that both Grant and Phelan were bound, and the unknown girl had a dark, purple bruise painting the skin of her throat.

Tracey took in all of this in the span of three seconds. And then all hell broke loose.

Darcy Retorre screamed and stood from his place on the floor as the robotic dog leapt through the gaping hole in the wall, opening it's mouth to reveal another growing ball of red light. At that same moment, Grant Gino, whom Tracey had thought was sleeping, suddenly jumped to his feet and promptly threw his elbow into Brody's face. Darcy only had a second to move as the laser blasted the floor where he had just been standing, charring the white tile black. Brody cried out in pain and stumbled backwards as blood trickled down his face, while Grant stood and charged across the room in a hunched run towards the restrained savage boy.

"Quinn, get out of the way!" Darcy cried to the unknown girl, who had stood directly in Grant's path. The running boy clamped his bound fists together and swung them into the girls head, smashing her in the side of the face and sending her stumbling. The dog made another screeching sound that made the savage boy howl, and fired another laser that Tracey only had a second to evade.

As Grant drew closer to the dog, he scooped up a long metal pole that lay amongst the remnants of a charred backpack and swung it at the dog's head. There was a loud crunch as the dogs head twisted to the side, yet it still remained functional and ignored Grant in favour of leaping towards Phelan Krouse, who had only just managed to stand despite his bound ankles.

"Darcy!" He cried, "Untie me!"

"I can't!" Darcy screamed, "I'll shock you!"

"Quinn?" Phelan pleaded, his voice desperate. Tracey, Ivy, and Brody were all too far away to do anything, and only watched as the girl who had only just been smashed in the forehead sat by from where she had fallen and watched Phelan with an icy glare, "Please!"

"Quinn!" Darcy cried. Quinn remained motionless, staring down at the pleading boy with no trace of mercy. The corners of her lips twitched slightly, as if ready to shoot upwards into a smug grin or fall into an unimpressed frown at any given moment.

"You can't do this!" Phelan screamed as the dog opened it's mouth, "I'm sorry I said anything! I didn't mean any of it! You have to untie me, please! You can't just do this! You can't-"

There was no orb of blue light to save Phelan Krouse. Ther laser tore through his chest as if it were no stronger than paper, leaving a gaping hole of charred insides in it's wake. Phelan stumbled backwards a few steps, as if he had only been lightly pushed. And then his knees buckled; both Darcy and Brody screamed as the boy hit the floor limply with his arms spread wide and his chest smoking. Tracey fought the urge to vomit and turned away as Darcy ran to the boys side; the girl only just caught side of Grant and the savage boy escaping through the gaping hole the dog had emerged through.

"Darcy!" Quinn cried, stumbling over to the boys side, "We have to leave!"

"Get off me!" Darcy screamed, shrugging off the hand she had placed on her shoulder as he turned to face her, "You let him die! You just stood there and let him die!"

"He tried to kill me!" Quinn cried.

"Guys!" Brody shouted, cupping his bleeding nose as he ran towards them, "In case you haven't noticed, we could all die at any second! Can you not argue later!"

"That sounds like a good idea!" Tracey snarled, watching the dog from the corner of her eye. The creature was standing stock still, as if it were enjoying the chaos that had emerged from the steaming hole that had been burned into Phelan's chest, "Do any of you have any weapons?"

"Well, I do have a bow," Ivy said thoughtfully. She had been laying on the floor until now, as she stood and removed the bow that had been attached to her back, "But I've never used it before,"

"It's worth a shot," Brody said, "Quinn, get Darcy out of here. We'll follow,"

Quinn reached out to touch Darcy, but he angrily shrugged off her shoulder and dashed past the dog towards the opening. Quinn's breath caught in her mouth, but she charged after him as Ivy struggled to notch an arrow.

Brody tried to stumble after them, but as he drew close to the hole, the dog leapt in his path and snapped at his flesh with its razor sharp teeth.

"Ivy!" Tracey screamed as Brody stumbled backwards; the red-head weakly pulled back the bowstring and fired the arrow. Unfortunately, Ivy's first shot was doomed to be a failure. The arrow twisted before it had even been released, the shaft smacked against Ivy's bare arm; the girl yelped and dropped the bow as the dog leapt at Brody.

Brody screamed in agony as the robot sunk it's teeth into his bicep, knocking him to the floor and tearing into his flesh. He trashed and screamed, but the dog had the boy's arm in an iron grip. Blood was splashing from beneath those metal teeth and into Brody's lap, his screams were so agonizing that Tracey could not just stand by and watched. In an act of desperation, she lunged forwards to where the marble pedestal with the button had fallen. It was a lot lighter than expected, and as she stumbled towards the dog and Brody, gave no resistance as she raised it over her head.

She let out a scream as she swung the pedestal with all her might, eyes lighting up as the marble smashed into the side of the dogs already twisted head. The swing created a huge dent in the side of it's face, and the left side of the robots head was torn from it's body. Multi-coloured wires flopped out from inside, sparking and crackling wildly as the dog's jaw released Brody's arm and fell to the side, the red light in it's human-like eyes dying as it did so.

"Thanks," Brody said weakly, before his own head hit the ground and he too went limp.

"Ivy!" Tracey cried, beckoning the taller girl over. The redhead was crouched beside Brody in an instant, pressing two fingers to his neck and performing a number of movements that Tracey did not understand, before she pulled back.

"He's alive, but we need to be quick," Ivy said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a bright white first aid kit. She also scooped up a needle and thread that lay discarded on the floor just by Brody's limp body; Tracey would have wondered how it got there if she was not so worried about that gaping hole of torn flesh in Brody's arm, "You have to hold him down. If he wakes up. . ."

"Yeah, I get it," Tracey said, pressing her arms down against the boy's shoulders, "It's going to hurt,"

 **Jadira Littler - District Nine**

The constant gravity shifting was making her queasy. At first, it had not been an issue. In fact, Jadira had quite liked the sensation of being lifted on the ground and floating through the air as if she weighed nothing at all.

But, as she found herself drifting away from her dinner for the third time that meal, there was no longer any joy in her system. Instead, she only felt the urge to vomit. She had positioned herself inside of the cornucopia so she would not float too high off the ground, but soon found herself regretting that decision as her head collided with the metal ceiling in a rather painful manner. Pressing her hands up against the flattest section she could find, Jadira shoved herself backwards and glided with a sickening lurch towards the floor; where she latched onto one of the numerous metal crates that had been nailed down.

She wondered how long she would have to remain there, clutching the corners of the box, swatting at stray baked beans that would hit her face with a splat. The duration of the gravity shifts varied in a seemingly unpredictable pattern. The longest she had experienced lasted close to forty minutes, while the shortest was a mere two seconds where she only felt the sensation that proceed lift off from the floor.

Jadira had quickly grown bored of the floating glory after that forty minute period; zipping around and doing somersaults mid-air lost it's novelty rather quickly, and there was not much else to do while floating aimlessly about. Thankfully, this shift was a short one. The gravity returned after only three minutes, and she fell roughly to her hands and knees with a stab of pain and a grunt. Her quiver of crossbow bolts spilled over her head as she hit the floor; arrows pouring over her head and clattering to the floor in a waterfall of silver.

Grunting with effort, she began collecting each of the bolts, until a familiar sound caused her to freeze up. The booming sound of the canon had almost been forgotten by Jadira Littler; the previous two had sounded amidst such chaos the day before, but this one was as clear as day, shattering the silence and leaving an ominous echo in it's wake. A third person had fallen, and while only a mere few had passed since the beginning, the number of tributes was already considerably slimmer. It would not be long before Jadira would have no choice but to commit an act of murder. It would not be long before Panem would know what a monster she truly was.

Resuming her pack up of the spilled puddle of crossbow bolts, Jadira made the decision to leave the centre room. Save for the constant and annoying gravity shifts that were making her feel ill, it was the most likely area for tributes to stumble into. She'd rather postpone spilling somebody's else's blood for a while longer.

Upon packing everything she could possibly need, food, sleeping gear, extra clothes, painkillers, soothing creams, extra arrows, a dagger, water, and more, Jadira set off in the direction of a random hatch with a bag so heavy that she might as well have been carrying around rocks on her back.

Surprisingly, this did not become as big a hindrance as she thought it would be. Many of the rooms she passed through were blank; while others were places that felt so wrong in the cubic arena, such as the misty cemetery or the clearing complete with a towering oak tree. By far, the most peculiar was a room that suspended her high above the clouds. The floor beneath her was transparent, giving her an extensive view of fields of green and yellow far below.

But for the most part, her journey was not interrupted by traps or mutts or fellow tributes. She was growing wearier with each passing room; her eyes drooped and her back ached with the enormous weight on her back. With each passing room, she continued to tell herself, just one more. She was not sure what he was looking for; maybe a room of comfort that would help her relax, or maybe a room that reminded her of home.

Eventually, she stumbled across a room that was more curious than the rest. Each and every surface was made up of enormous speakers; her only solace from the darkness was the silver hatches. Surprisingly, she found herself wondering how she could see in this room at all. In other rooms, she had assumed that the light came from the glowing white surfaces. But in this room, there was no surface emitting light, yet she could see as clear as day.

She was tempted to hunt for some source of light, when suddenly, Jadira was immersed in a sound so loud that it brought the girl to her knees. It paused only for a second, allowing Jadira to become aware of the intense ringing in her ears, before it returned. It was music, she knew that much, but it was so loud that she could not make out what the song or the genre. It came from every which direction, blasting so loudly that she could hardly form a coherent thought. With hands clamping over her ears, Jadira's screams sounded as if they were miles and miles away.

The explosion of music did not deter in volume; Jadira could not tell if her shaking body was due to the severe speaker vibrations or a mixture of her own fear and pain. She forced her eyes open and let out a gasp, inhaling a breath she had not known she had been holding. It was much like being underwater and drowning; the music was so loud that it dulled all her senses. A sticky substance dribbled down the side of her face as she fell forwards onto her palms; red dripping into crimson splotches on the black speakers as she began to crawl across the floor to the nearest hatch.

Her fingers felt slippery as she fumbled for the wheel of the hatch, flimsy wrists straining as they pulled on the metal. Wet tears carved trails through the hot blood dribbling down from her ears, she hardly noticed she was sobbing until she had fallen through the hatch and hit the floor on the other side.

Her ears were ringing almost as loud as the music had blasted, she could not hear herself sobbing nor could she hear her own screams of pain. Her ears felt as if they were being stabbed by hundreds of needles, and she only realized she was not alone in the room when a pair of shoes set foot in front of her.

With trembling knees, she stood to her feet and raised her arm that had the crossbow attached. There was already a bolt loaded; aimed directly in the face of a pretty blonde girl and her childish companion.

The little girl looked as if she were crying, while the older girl was mouthing something Jadira could neither hear nor understand. They were both standing with their backs pressed against the bars of a cell with their hands raised in a defensive manner against their chests. Beside Jadira was a big, luxurious looking bed, and right in the centre was a silver key.

"Don't try anything stupid," Jadira said in what she thought had been a soft tone, but must have been a shout if the girls wincing was anything to go by, "I don't want to hurt you,"

That was true, she did not want to hurt these girls. But not for their sake, for her own. Her head was buzzing with pain and her ears were ringing so loudly that she wanted to tear them off; she was not able to keep up that bubbly personality that keeps the real Jadira locked away. Was she ready to become that monster she knew she was?

The younger girl was now sobbing harder, while the other girl looked as if she were getting angry, "Just back yourselfs into the cell and let me think,"

The girl shouted something, and took a step forwards. Something flashed in her hand, a glittering knife. The younger girl tugged on the elders sleeve, and despite her tears and sobs, the corner of her lips were twitching upwards.

"Don't take another step!" Jadira yelled. The girl yelled something back, inaudible over the ringing in her ears. And then she took a step forwards.

Jadira fired the crossbow. The bolt shot through the air and tore into the girl's shoulder. She screamed, and stumbled backwards; losing her footing and crashing into the metal bars behind her. The little girl appeared shocked; as if she had been sure Jadira wouldn't shoot.

"Get in the cell, now!" Jadira ordered, leveling the crossbow with the younger girl's face, "Or the next shot will be deadly,"

Jadira's head was throbbing, she longed to just plonk herself down in the bed and fall asleep. She was angry. Angry at the girls for not obeying her command. Angry at that stupid music room. Angry at the gamemakers for dropping her in here. Angry at her parents for bringing her into the world. The girls were taking their time, clutching each other and crying and hobbling at a snail's pace towards the cell door. Jadira longed to scream and just let loose the crossbow bolt.

"Hurry up!" Jadira snarled angrily. When the girls eventually fell inside of the cell, Jadira picked up the key, lunged forwards and slammed the door shut, thrusting the key into the lock and sealing the girls inside. Both of them were shouting as Jadira turned her back on them and stumbled towards the bed. But their pleas of freedom fell on deaf ears as Jadira collapsed in the fluffy confides of the bed and closed her eyes.

 **Aldon Crowell - District Five**

The projected faces of the fallen came shortly after Malcolm had fallen asleep. The room was dark, so dark that Aldon could only just see his hand in front of his face.

He had considered starting a fire, only to have Malcolm shoot him down by saying that the flames would just spread to the sheets and set the entire bed on fire. The two seldom spoke, in fact, the only indication Aldon had that Malcolm had fallen asleep was the subtle shift from short and quick breaths to prolonged and deeper inhales.

The bright depiction of Phelan Krouse shining on the ceiling of the room cast beams of blue and green light in all directions, one landing directly on Malcolm's sleeping form. The boy groaned at the sudden brightness and rolled over, wrapping his body amongst the ocean of quilt that surrounded him.

Aldon tilted his head upwards and stared at the now deceased face of Phelan Krouse; ocean blue eyes shining brightly as opposed to the twisted frown he wore below. His sandy hair was ruffled in a way that looked as if he had left it the way it had been when he had woken up, and light brown freckles dusted his nose.

He's dead, Aldon thought. Gone forever. Snatched from this world at an age so young. Just like Varick Lamarre, whose blood was literally on Aldon's hands. Aldon's nimble fingers wrapped around the stem of a flower that had long since died; a souvenir he had taken from a beautiful grassy hill that had been peppered with hundreds of colourful flowers. The plant had died almost instantly after it left the room. He had wanted to keep it, to nurture the plant to make up for the life he had taken. Instead, the flower withered up and died in his hands.

As Phelan's face faded; disappearing from the world forever, there came a sound so soft that it could have been mistaken for a trick of the imagination. Aldon would have passed the faint cough off as such, had he not known of the presence of the intruder for hours.

He had been waiting for Malcolm to drift off before confronting the hidden person; as much as he wanted to protect and assist the person he had wronged, he did not wish to kill somebody who did not pose a threat. He did not know if Malcolm would force him to do so.

The cough came again; a little louder this time. The mountainous bed pillows loomed over the two boys a little too close for comfort; if they fell, the two boys would be crushed beneath the feathery weight. If he were to guess, that was where the person was hiding.

"I know you're there," Aldon said in a low voice; loud enough for the person to hear yet not jolt Malcolm from his sleep, "I suggest you reveal yourself now,"

Aldon could not see the figure that emerged from somewhere close to the lump, but he could hear the soft scuffling on their shoes catching and dragging on the rolling quilt. Aldon's fingers gripped the handle of his spear; there was no telling if this person was dangerous or not.

"Drop your weapon," Aldon ordered as the person stopped somewhere nearby.

"I don't have one," A female voice replied in a breathy voice, "Please don't hurt me,"

"As long as you don't try anything," Aldon said, ensuring his tone shows no outward emotion. The biggest impact the arena has had on Aldon Crowell is the crushing realization that his entire personality has been molded by his father; twisted and transformed into a smaller version of the man himself. Aldon never did like his father, but having his dad tell his child that he was proud had been a dream of Aldon's. Not anymore.

"I'll leave in the morning, I promise," The girl pleaded, "It's too dark to leave now,"

"I hope you keep that promise," Aldon growled, "I can ensure you that I am a light sleeper; any funny business, and I will not hesitate to skewer you,"

The threat was empty, but the whimper given by the obscured girl showed that she bought it. With a silent thank you, she slipped back in silence towards her hiding place while Aldon repositioned himself so that he was laying right beside Malcolm.

The guilt he felt was overwhelming. The guilt he felt over making Malcolm's life a living hell. The guilt he felt over the racially and sexually diverse children at school. The guilt he felt over murdering Varick Lamarre. He could not make it up to those children at school, nor could he revive Varick Lamarre. But he could make it up to Malcolm, and while that would never be enough to redeem Aldon, it was a step in the right direction.

 **Osborne Seatone - District Four**

The scratching of pencil on paper is the only thing keeping Osborne distracted from the discovery he had uncovered that morning. Rylands artistic skills were magnificent; the elder boy was blown away by how realistic and detailed his creations were. Ryland was currently positioned atop the teacher's desk with his legs folded over one another; jaw set firmly as he scribbled across a fresh page.

Yvette was knelt in the centre of a ring of tables; she and Osborne had cleared a space in the centre of the room so they would have room to create a fire. It had been Ryland's idea, to burn the files that contained secrets that could ruin lives. Secrets that could ruin Osborne's life.

He had wanted to read some of the other folders, to gain some insight on the competition, but both Ryland and Yvette had protested that it was an invasion of privacy. Together, they had concluded the best option was to burn the files.

Osborne was happy to watch his own secrets turn to ashes; he would do anything to protect that story from getting out. Osborne's eyes drifted to Yvette's hunched form; the girl was feverishly rubbing two sticks together in an attempt to spark a flame. Osborne had offered to help, but she had snapped and said she could do it herself. What interested Osborne about Yvette was that she had had almost as bad a reaction to the folders as he had. Sure, it could have been that she was terrified that somebody had been watching her every move. But then why had she been so eager to go along with Ryland's suggestion of burning them?

From his spot on the desk, Ryland gave a sudden cry and dropped his pad. The pencil hit the desktop and rolled onto the floor, vanishing beneath the neighbouring filing cabinet. The boy himself slid from the desk, backing up and narrowly avoiding bumping into Osborne's chest.

"What's wrong?" Osborne asked worriedly. He feared the gamemakers were growing bored with their lack of action; he was sure they would sometime soon send some mutts after the trio. But there was no mutated or horrifying creature perched on the desk, only an open pad with a rough sketch of a girl.

"Nothing," Ryland breathed. Osborne frowned as he peered at the pale boy; Ryland had a palm splayed out across his heaving chest and his small hands were trembling. Osborne's eyes drifted back to the girl. It was a really beautiful drawing; depicting a young girl who stood before a tsunami of her own hair. Her eyes were a dazzling blue, the only colour Ryland had added to the picture.

With little warning, Ryland lunged forwards and snatched the book from the table, slamming it shut and turning his back to Osborne. A frown wormed its way onto the elder boys face. The realization that he knew nothing of his two companions in the room hit him like a truck. They had shared happy memories and hysterical moments in the dark the night before: at the age of seven, Ryland won a prize for his artwork that was said to surpass the abilities of those years older than him. Yvette had recalled an embarrassing memory in which she passed gas while singing at a school assembly, a sound that had been amplified by the microphone before her.

But these short memories told nothing of their true personalities. Would they still tolerate Osborne if they knew what he had done? Would he still tolerate Yvette for whatever act had shaken her so?

"Kid, are you sure you're okay?" Osborne asked, stepping forwards and placing a comforting hand on Rylands shoulder. The younger shot him an irritated look, but appeared hesitant before shrugging off his hand.

"I'm fine," He breathed, turning around to face Osborne while concealing the drawing pad behind his back, "I just cut myself. That's all,"

Osborne frowned as Ryland gave a watery smile and turned away once more. Apparently, Ryland was hiding secrets of his own. The room lapsed into silence again as Yvette paused her attempts at sparking a flame, rolling back onto her haunches and glaring down at the kindling with a look of frustration. The wood had come from a neighbouring room; Osborne had ventured out in search of water and found a pine forest instead. Bunched up between the twigs and grass were the primary school tests that had been scattered across the tables. He was not going to miss the memory of his old maths tests.

"You'll get there," Osborne said reassuringly to Yvette, who shot him a thankful smile in return. Yvette was an oddity that Osborne did not quite understand. She often switched between a dominant and in control personality and a more submissive and unsure attitude. Osborne preferred the former, yet the latter gave him the desire to protect and preserve the girl.

"Hey, come and look at this," Ryland suddenly called from the other side of the teachers desk. Yvette shook her head and returned to her kindling, leaving Osborne to peer at Rylands discovery alone. The boy stood with the back of his thighs pressed against the teacher's desk, chin tilted upwards as he stared at the row of laminated numbers above the board.

"Wow, you can count? Good for you, kid," Osborne said with a comical grin. Ryland scowled in response and flung his arm out across Osborne's stomach, knocking the wind out of the older boy, who gasped, "Fair play," in response.

"I meant, look at number fifteen," Osborne followed Ryland's outstretched finger to the particular number, the fifteens colour was paled and faded in comparison to the posters surrounding it. The paint was chipped, and a layer of dirt had wormed its way beneath the laminated plastic.

"So, some kid doesn't have your artistic talent. What's your point?"

"It wasn't like that before," Ryland comments, "It looked fine a few hours ago. But now it looks like those ones,"

Now pointing further down the line, Osborne saw that the numbers one and three were in an even worse shape than fifteen was. A theory was already worming its way into Osborne's mind as Ryland spoke, "What do you think it means?"

"Well, take a closer look, kid," Osborne said, sitting down on the teacher's desk and extending his arms wide, "How many numbers are there?"

"Twenty-Four," Ryland answered sourly.

"Exactly. And how many tributes have died so far?"

"Three," Ryland said, his voice now heavy and grave, "Oh,"

The two boys were silent as their minds reeled with this discovery; Ryland's small hands began to tremble again as colour drained from his face. With a sigh escaping his lips, Osborne wrapped an arm around the younger boy's shoulder, and this time, the younger did not push it away.

They sat there like that for a while, Ryland heaved himself onto the desk beside Osborne and wrapped his own arms across his small waist. Osborne rubbed reassuring circles into the younger's back as he listened to Yvette's frantic rubbing of twigs. As Ryland shivered against his hand, Osborne began to doubt the theory he had created before. Osborne knew that he belonged here, this was his punishment for the crime he had committed. Maybe whatever secret Yvette was keeping landed her in the arena as well. But what crime could innocent, artistic Ryland have committed that was bad enough for him to be sent into a death game? Or was this innocent persona concealing a killer underneath it?

"I did it!" Yvette cried from the other side of the room. Osborne twisted around to find the girl dancing around the fire with a look of glee on her face, letting out whoops of joy every couple of seconds.

"Quickly, we can't let it spread!" Ryland said, his voice showing no traces of his previous bout of fear. Stumbling towards the stack of folders on the desk, the boy pulled a third of them into his arms and stumbled towards the flame. Yvette followed and grabbed a number for herself, and Osborne stood and took the few that remained.

"Are you sure this is what you want, kid?" Osborne said as he joined the younger teenagers by the fire.

"Yes," Ryland said, staring down into the flames, "It's the right thing to do,"

Placing his stack of folders on the table, he grabbed the one off the top, which happened to be his own. Without a second of hesitation, he dropped the folder into the flames. The inferno blazed brighter as the paper was engulfed' flames spiking higher for a moment before dropping to it's original size. Yvette went next, dropping her own folder on top of the charred remains of Ryland's. Osborne watched the girl from the corner of his eye, frowning as a smile of relief sprung to life on her dark face.

Osborne went last. He paused for a moment, peeling away the cover of his folder and peering at the photo that stared back at him. He had glimpsed the pictures pasted in the folders of his companions; both were shocking school photos that, under different circumstances, Osborne would have teased Ryland about for days. Osborne's own picture was nothing of the sort; he wished his picture was nothing but an embarrassing school picture. Instead, his picture was a mugshot.

Osborne scowled and tossed the folder into the flames, eyes lighting up alongside the dancing flames. For now, his secret was safe. The police may have arrested him that night, but they had no idea what he had really done.

They proceeded in a clockwise rotation, each person tossing a folder into the flames and waiting for them to die down before the next person tossed theirs. Osborne could not help but read the names of whose history he was turning to ash. Willow Drake. Darcy Retorre. Aldon Crowell. Felecia Coin. Kelani Richards. But it was the last folder that made Osborne's head spin and his stomach lurch. It was the last folder that made him pause and turn away as Ryland threw his last folder onto the fire.

It couldn't be her. It was just too coincidental. How could she have ended up in here with him? Osborne knew this opportunity was too perfect to pass up; if he ran into her, his secret may be said for all of Panem to hear. If Osborne wishes to protect his reputation, he needs to get some dirt on the one person who could destroy it.

As Yvette tossed her last folder into the fire, Osborne pulled the pages from the folder and stuffed them down the front of his pants, ensuring that there was no visible bulges before turning back. With the corners of his lips twitching up into a smirk, Osborne tossed the folder of Quinn Hyland into the flames.


	10. Day Three: Lurking in the Shadows

Day Three - Lurking in the Shadows

 **Seneca Pelletier - District Six**

Seneca hated confinement. She was not claustrophobic, the young girl may fear a number of subjects such as spiders or the ocean, but small spaces had never induced panic attacks. But that did not sooth the annoyance brought about through lack of freedom, how she supposed to shine if there was no room to spread her wings?

Candace slept like a baby on the prison bench while the shorter had curled up on the floor, the elder girl was so graceful even in sleep that Seneca found herself envious. She had never been the prettiest girl, one of the downfalls of appearing cute, young, and innocent was that nobody would ever think of her as attractive.

Candace, however, had the beauty of models. Her skin was flawless, and her golden hair retained its silky smoothness despite days without a wash. Her features were perfect, Seneca wished she could reach out and pluck the girls perfect nose off and swap it with her own misshapen one.

Currently, Seneca sat with her back pressed to the cold brick wall, eyeing the sleeping Jadira Littler with a face red with anger. She twiddled with the stem of the crossbow bolt that had dug its way through Candace's bicep. The arrow head had thankfully missed everything of importance, but Seneca knew that the girls bloodied bandage would require numerous changes.

She did not want to let the arrow out of her sight, it was the only form of defense held between the girls. The head was stained red with blood, Seneca was careful to avoid touching it with her hands. The sticky red substance made her gag, and had she eaten before applying Candace's bandage, she would have thrown up all over the floor.

She sat listening to nothing but the heavy breaths and occasional murmur Candace would emit from her place on the bench for what felt like hours. She knew that it was morning, the lights that had illuminated the room the night prior had flicked off, allowing a glassy window that was too blurred to peer through to thrust light through to the small cell.

She felt herself begin to nod off after a long period of silence, she had sat up with little sleep for most of the night, and only now was the weariness getting to her. But right as her head threatened to loll on her shoulders, Jadira Littler let out a sudden cry from her bed and shot into a sitting position. Seneca's eyes bulged, a bloody mess of red and yellow had spilled from Jadira's ears and stained the sides of her face, the girl in question had her eyes closed tight with an expression of pain while clutching at the sides of her face and moaning in pain.

A small detail from the previous night lit up in Seneca's mind like a lightbulb, Jadira had been unable to hear anything the girls were saying and had repeatedly clawed at her ears as if they were causing her a great deal of pain. Had she been deafened by something?

Seneca knew nothing of Jadira, other than the name she had obtained from a picture depicting the girl at a younger age taking the lead role in a school play. She had little illusions that the girl was above killing, but that did not necessarily mean she was a mean person. Colder people had fallen to Seneca's innocent act than Jadira Littler.

While Jadira seemingly fought against an invisible foe in her bed by thrashing about and moaning in pain, Seneca worked up watery eyes and crawled closer to the bars. She climbed to her feet, yet stood in a slouch. Her hair was already messy enough, and to her disgust, a large splatter of Candace's blood had poured down the front of Seneca's shirt. Forcing her knees to quiver and letting out a number of soft sobs, she stood in wait for the moment Jadira would finally wake and peer in her direction.

It did not take long, Jadira eventually sat straight and her blotchy red eyes shot open. Her face was a mess of snot, tears, blood, and puss. Seneca fought the urge to gag as the girl gave a squeak upon sighting the crying child.

Raising a small and pale hand like a paw, Seneca rubbed at her left eye while her other hand fiddled with the handle of the crossbow bolt, "Please let us out,"

Jadira continued to stare at Seneca as if she were an alien, until Seneca let her entire body tremble upon letting out a strangled "Please!"

"Oh my god!" Jadira said, her voice loud and uneven. She scrambled from the confines of her sheets, and crossed the floor towards Seneca with a face of both worry and pain, "What did I do?"

Seneca only continued to sob, taking a step backwards and retracting her rubbing hand to join it's companion on the neck of the bolt. Jadira's eyes flickered from the arrow to the bloody stain on Seneca's shirt and let out a strangled sob. The young girl fought the urge to smirk in triumph, Jadira Littler had been much easier to topple than the principal of her school, a highly regarded and widely known as a very harsh and cruel man. He had introduced a method of punishment into his school that was like an introduction to the whipping criminals would receive from peacekeepers, a belt strap or a ruler was often used to lash and harm troublemaking students. Seneca had been sent to the man after she had pulled a heinous prank on her elder sister involving a lit cigarette which resulted in an inferno which burnt the science building to ashes.

It had taken some convincing and a lot of crying, but Seneca eventually planted the idea that, while the act had been an accident, her sister had been the one to toss the cigarette into the curtain. While she had received no criminal charges, Abigail Pelletier was expelled from her school and had no choice but to take up work in the factories.

"What did I do?" Jadira almost screamed, Seneca assumed the girl had no idea how loud she was being as she crouched down by the bars of the cell and shouted, "Are you okay,"

Taking a tentative step back, Seneca shook her head and folded her arms across her stomach, hanging her head down and sniffling. Jadira made a sound that Seneca could not place. Cautiously, she peered out through the strands of brown hair that had fallen across her face to find Jadira holding a bottle of water through the bars of the cell.

On trembling legs, Seneca reclaimed the step she had taken, and slowly extended her hand towards the bottle as Jadira apologized profusely. But as her fingertips brushed the plastic coating of the bottle, Seneca lunged forwards and shoved both of her arms through the bars. Jadira let out a cry of surprise as Seneca's hands snagged the collar of her shirt and balled into fists. Mustering all of her strength, Seneca yanked arms backwards and cracked a malicious smile as Jadira's face smashed into and cracked loudly against the metal bars of the cell.

"What happened?" Candace suddenly squealed from behind as Jadira crumpled. Keeping one hand balled up in the girl's shirt to hold her in place, Seneca released the other and reached around to the girls back pocket, delving inside and retrieving a single, silver key.

"Thankyou so much!" Seneca said sweetly, and released Jadira's shirt. Standing and turning to Candace, Seneca wiped at her teary eyes and smiled innocently, "We can go now,"

"Is she okay?" Candace asked as Seneca stepped towards the door, giving the blonde a clear look at the crumpled Jadira. The girl's left ear had been smashed against the metal bar, furthering the damage done inside and causing a spill of crimson on the floor beside her. Jadira had curled up into a ball, sobbing loudly and trembling so violently that one could mistake her for the victim of a seizure.

"She'll be fine," Seneca said as she unlocked the door to the cell, pulling it in and allowing Candace to exit first, "Is your arm okay?"

"Painful," Candace sniffed, "But nowhere as bad as it was last night,"

"I hope it won't hurt too bad once those tablets run out," Seneca said as she followed Candace out into the open space, forcing another sniffle, "I was so scared for you last night,"

Seneca had stirred Candace a few hours from dawn and forced her to swallow a number of painkillers dry in the hopes that she would wake feeling less agonized than she had felt upon falling asleep.

"She scares me," Seneca whimpered as the two loomed over Jadira's crumpled form, "Can't we put her in the cell, Candy?"

"Well…" Candace appeared hesitant, sparking a flash of anger in the younger girl. Why had she been the one to stumble across Seneca on that hill, couldn't it have been somebody braver? Or smarter?

"Please, Candy!" Seneca said, eyes brimming with tears, "What if she comes after us? What if she hurts you?"

"Okay, okay," Candace said hurriedly, placing two soothing hands on the younger girl's shoulders, "You just sit down on the bed there, and I'll lock her up,"

Seneca nodded meekly and passed Candace the key, and moved to take a seat on the foot of the bed, which upon closer inspection, was also stained with crimson blood. Candace crouched down by the shivering Jadira and pondered for a moment, as if deciding whether or not this was a good idea. Eventually, she reached forwards and grasped Jadira's ankle and began dragging her towards the cell door, completely oblivious to Seneca's triumphant smile.

 **Kelani Richards - District Ten**

Kelani's slender fingers trembled as she pried another book from her growing collection, flinging open the cover and burying herself inside before her attention could be drawn elsewhere. Sleep had evaded her for the vast majority of the night, save for the few moments she would nod off before being woken by a sound that may not have been real.

The library was dark and dreary during the day, but whatever the source of the faint light was shut off as night fell, plunging the library into darkness and leaving Kelani with nothing but a lantern she had dug out from a kitchen cupboard to see by.

Her nest had grown to accommodate a small mountain of pillows, a large bottle of water that replenishes itself whenever she looked away, a quilt pulled from one of the sofas in the lounge, a picnic basket of various foods she had taken from the fridge and kitchen cupboards, and a golden pocket watch which currently told her that five AM was rapidly approaching.

She remained curled up in her snug wrap of blankets for hours, arm only poking out to turn the pages of her book, trying to ignore the distant jingle of that dreaded music box that seemed to have been moved closer to the hiding girl. She was too terrified to unwrap herself and look, instead snuggling deeper into her cocoon and furthering her illusion that the world of printed fiction was the only world that existed.

Ever since she was young, Kelani had been a thrill seeker. She had always found the exhilarating effects of adrenaline to be addicting, and spent her free time, that wasn't being spent lazing around, searching for that rush through life threatening stunts, petty crimes such as theft, or sending herself into a happier place through drugs or alcohol.

Her mother had always despised Kelani's thrill seeking lifestyle, and would voice her complaints on a regular basis without doing anything to stop the acts that took place outside of the household. Her father didn't seem to care, although he was hardly around to notice much outside the few times she was arrested and the one time she landed herself in hospital.

That had been the day he flipped out, the only time in her life that Kelani found herself generally scared of her father. It had been one of the few days a week he was home for dinner, and had asked Kelani to fetch a fresh batch of eggs from the Graves family that lived down the road. She had happily obliged, ecstatic to spend some time with her dad. But as she turned onto the dirt driveway to the Graves farm, she was confronted with a herd of stampeding cows thundering down the path and leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. She should have dived to the side, saved herself from such immediate danger. But instead, she had bit her lip and taken a risk that had nearly gotten her killed.

She launched herself into the path of the cattle, and dashed away in the opposite direction, a grin breaking out on her face as that familiar rush powered her pumping legs and flailing arms. But apparently she had underestimated the speed of an animal she had always thought of as lazy. It had happened in an instant, one moment she was laughing and losing herself in the energy, and the next something slammed into her side with the force of a truck.

She could still remember the momentary weightless feeling of being airborne, an exhilaration that would have been almost magical had she not been in agonizing pain and scared out of her mind. She had hit the side of the driveway like a ragdoll, flopping into a thorny bush on the side that tore at the skin of her arms and cheeks. And then came the worst pain of all, it felt as if her leg had been squashed like a pancake. The sensation had been so bad that she had passed out, and only later would she find out from the Graves boy that one of the cows had strayed from herd and trampled her leg that had been strewn across the driveway.

She had been crippled for almost two years, confined to her bedroom and school, and always under the watchful eye of her mother. Her horrible, hate filled mother.

A sudden sound made Kelani's eyes shoot open, head snapping up from where it had lolled on her shoulder. Her eyes flicked down to the pocketwatch, which now read 7:48AM. She must have dozed off. A few feet away from her manmade nest of blankets and pillows, a heavy looking book with a thick black cover lay open on the floor, fallen from a shelf high above.

Kelani swallowed loudly and stood, her wrist trembling as she reached for the her curved sword. One of the red blankets clung to her shoulders like a cape, remaining attached as she stepped over her ring of pillows to inspect the book. The shadows lurched and warped around Kelani as she crept down the extensive hall, thankful that the book had fallen within the reaches of her glowing lantern.

She nudged the cover of the book closed with the very tip of her shoe, refusing to risk crouching down and leaving herself vulnerable to whatever monsters lurked in the shadows, whether they be human or not. Her eyes raked over the cover of the book as it folded over, only to find that the book was blank. There was another thud from behind, Kelani whipped around to see that another book had toppled from the shelf to her left, this time a brightly coloured comic book. The graphic images felt so out of place in the formal and frankly depressing library, the cover depicting an enormous spider with pearly white fangs and strands of green saliva pouring from it's mouth only adding to Kelani's paranoia.

A third book fell free of it's shelf above, closely followed by a fourth. Suddenly, Kelani was caught in a shower of toppling books that fell from shelves that towered into darkness, and amidst the thuds of books that miraculously left her untouched, came a long and loud groan that shattered the peaceful aura of the vast library. Kelani's head tilted upwards, and let out an ear piercing scream that would have left nearby dogs howling. The shelf to her left was dangerously tilting, falling in a slow manner that fit the setting on the house all too well. Kelani's scream failed to cease as she dashed into the shower of books that grew in numbers with each passing second, refusing to allow the novels that collided with her running form to slow her down.

There was no time to salvage anything from her nest, Kelani helplessly leapt over her mountain of fabrics, foot colliding with the shining lantern and smashing both the glass casing and the bulb inside, plunging the library into darkness. She stumbled, but managed to remain on her feet. Her head was pounding as she ran, the terror rendering the girl dizzy and clumsy as she drove herself further into the darkness. Her screams had receded to strangled and breathy sobs as her pumping legs began to burn, her once injured limb protesting loudly enough that she was forced to slow to a jog.

There was a tremendous crash from somewhere far behind, sending shockwaves through the library the knocked Kelani from her feet and sent her flailing forwards. Her chest collided with something warm and concealed by the shadows, something that fell along with her and took on the role of a cushion as she fell. Her face was buried in a furry substance that clung to her moist face, and her knee was digging into something soft and squishy. Only in a far reaches of her conscious mind did she realize that the object that had broken her fall was another human being.

 **Yvette Macura - District Eleven**

 _The morning was crisp and beautiful on that fateful Thursday morning. Yvette started it as she would any other, flopping over and slamming her hand down on the electronic alarm. The noise refused to shut off, growing in volume and intensity until the ten year old girl finally slipped from beneath her covers and shut the contraption off at the source._

 _The red numbers flashed 7:30, leaving her with plenty of time to prepare for school. Stretching her arms above her head until her back cracked, Yvette yawned and smiled as the stiffness in her muscles dissolved._

 _Her strides were long, confident, and held a sort of bounce to them that most adults lacked, not a worry weighing down her shoulders and dampening her mood. Catrina sat on a rickety chair by the kitchen table, messily stuffing a piece of buttered toast into her mouth with strawberry jam smeared across the side of her face._

 _"Morning 'Vette!" She squeaked, eyes shining as her elder sister and personal hero passed through the kitchen without a passing glance. Yvette was not at all surprised by her sisters idolisation of her, in fact, she reveled in it. Why shouldn't the five year old adore her perfect sister, the popular girl with perfect grades and an athletic body to match._

 _Yvette passed through the kitchen and slipped through the hallway and into the bathroom, not bothering to down her own breakfast and glass of milk her mother had set out for her. Yvette's parents started work at the crack of dawn most days a week, and would come home only to eat dinner and fall into bed. Their eldest daughter was granted the responsibility of caring for Catrina, a task she held with little importance or effort._

 _A frown threatened to break Yvette's cheery expression for a fraction of a second as she glanced upon the bathroom mirror, which was splattered with sticky white toothpaste from the night before._

 _"Cat!" Yvette barked down the hallway, "I told you to clean the mirror!"_

 _A muffled apology came drifting back, most likely stifled by another mouthful of toast. Yvette sighed and snagged a nearby towel from a rack to wipe down the glass, she was not about to ruin her mood over such a mundane inconvenience. Today was an important day, Yvette was going to be scoring an award not only for being the top of her class, but for scoring the most goals over the course of the year on her soccer team. She would also have won the perfect attendance award, had her sister not come down with chickenpox a few months back._

 _Once the mirror was as clean as it was going to get, Yvette pulled a stool out from beneath the cabinet with her foot and stood upon it. Despite her exceptional soccer skills, Yvette was one of the shortest on the team, a fact her teammates were reluctant to forget._

 _The kitchen was empty again when Yvette returned from brushing her teeth and perfecting her hair. Catrina's plate and half-full glass of milk still sat on the table, once again leaving her mess for Yvette to clean._

 _"You know, I would love a week without having to clean up after you," Yvette grumbled to nobody as she gathered the diningware and brought them to the tiny sink, ready to scrub. Catrina came back into the kitchen shortly after, dressed for school and sporting a poorly crafted ponytail on the back of her head._

 _"You have something here," Yvette said as Catrina's chin came to rest on the counter beside her sister. The younger wiped at the opposite side of her face to the one Yvette had tapped. The elder sighed, dropping the plate she was scrubbing and reaching out to wipe the sticky substance away._

 _"Twinkle needs the toilet," Catrina squeaked as Yvette resumed her washing of the dishes._

 _"Well, Twinkle has a litter box," Yvette answered, placing the last of the dirty plates on the drying rack and pulling the plug._

 _"It's full,"_

 _"It's your job to clean it," Yvette sighed._

 _"I don't know how," Catrina said, and once again Yvette's lips threatened to pull into a frown. Why was her sister so difficult? The younger trailed after Yvette as she moved from the kitchen to the living room, drying her hands on a teatowel and tossing it onto a growing mountain of laundry in the corner._

 _"Both dad and I have shown you how to do it," Yvette said, snagging her backpack from the sofa and shrugging it onto her shoulders, "You'll have to change it after school,"_

 _"But she has to go now!"_

 _"She can wait," Yvette said, picking up her sisters smaller backpack, "Turnaround,"_

 _Catrina pouted yet turned, allowing Yvette to pull her arms through the straps. The girl complained no more as she stalked towards the front door, Yvette snorted at her hunched shoulders and over exaggerated stomps. Snagging the keys from the hook, Yvette smiled down at the grumpy child, "Twinkle will be fine. She can wait a few hours,"_

 _Yvette opened the door and gestured for Catrina to go first. The child raised her leg to take a step, only to retract it with a yelp as a black shape shot out from inside the house._

 _"Twinkle!" Catrina cried as the cat shot across the yellowing lawn and through the open, rusty gate._

 _"Catrina wait!" Yvette shouted as the younger girl tore after her pet, the older girl groaned and quickly turned to slam the door shut before chasing after her. Twinkle had paused in the middle of the road, slouched in a sitting position and staring at the house across the street in a calm manner._

 _"Naughty Twinkle!" Catrina scolded as she bent down to scoop up the cat. Yvette groaned and peered down at her watch, which now read five past eight. They were going to be late._

 _"Hurry up!" Yvette called, stalling by the rusted iron gate and holding it open for the girl and the cat bundled in her arms. Catrina didn't answer, her attention had been stolen by the pet she was currently nuzzling. Yvette sighed, raising a hand to her forehead and wiping at a bead of sweat. It was a reflex response to agitation, which frankly made Yvette even angrier. On top of everything that was bothering her, she smelt like a dirty gym sock._

 _Yvette leaned her elbow against the brick podium, stealing a glance back at the rundown house behind her. The Macura family lived on the outskirts of town, which said enough about their financial situation there and then. The walk into the heart of the district to school was long and dreary, and the girls were going to be late if Catrina didn't hurry up._

 _The screeching of tires hardly broke Yvette's train of thought as she stared back at the peeling front door of her house. Cars weren't a frequent occurrence in District Eleven, especially in the less wealthy areas. She recognized the sound, but misassigned it as the sound of machinery from the construction site a few streets over. The screeching of tires did not catch Yvette's attention. But the crunching of metal did._

 _For a fleeting moment, it was as if the world ceased its turn. Yvette turned to look at the road in an almost tranquil manner, eyes first falling on the red car with a crumpled bonnet idling in the middle of the road, occupants inaudibly arguing on the inside. Then, her eyes drifted to the twisted form on the road a few fleet away, the only sign of movement being the squirming cat struggling to free itself from frozen arms._

 _"Catrina. . ." Her voice was but a whisper, the world around her seemed to peel away leaving only Yvette, Catrina, Twinkle, and the red car alone in a swirling pool of darkness._

 _"Catrina!" Yvette cried again, her voice an octave louder. Her voice couldn't seem to portray the despair that hadden suddenly crashed over her in a wave, the feeling that her knees were going to buckle before throwing up the breakfast she hadn't eaten._

 _Catrina had fallen facing Yvette, eyes held closed tightly in a manner that suggested she may still be alive. But her face was a mess, flesh hanging off in grotesque folds and appearing as if it had been dipped in a pool of cranberry juice. Her body was twisted at a disgusting angle, and one of her arms was now a bloody mess and bent at a 90 degree angle._

 _"H-help…" Her voice was still too quiet, only those who were standing right beside her would have heard her desperate plea. The red car began to reverse, and Yvette stumbled forwards from the gate and out onto the gutter as it began to pull around Catrina's broken form, "Help!"_

 _This time, her voice was a scream. The car didn't stop, rapidly picking up speed and tearing down the road, away from the life they had just ruined. Yvette screamed for help again as she stumbled further out onto the road, kneeling in a pooling puddle of crimson on the bitcheman. She could hear doors slamming nearby, and shouts that were nothing but white noise for the girl who was now outwardly sobbing for her sister. She reached out, and brushed a bloodied strand of hair from Catrina's stoney face. Twinkle continued to squirm between them, finally wriggling free of his owner's arms and scampering back towards the open Macura gate._

 _Yvette let the cat go, refusing to move from her sister's side as people flooded onto the street from all directions. She didn't pay attention to their questions, because she knew there was nothing they could do. Because the life of Catrina Macura had already slipped away fore_ ver.

"Got everything, kid?" Osborne slapped Ryland's shoulder in a friendly manner, to which the younger boy scowled and shoved his companion away.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" Ryland didn't turn to look at Osborne as he spoke, it was amazing how quickly a connection of trust had formed between both boys.

"For as long as I can," Osborne grinned, deep blue eyes flicking up from where Ryland was carefully depositing his sketchbook to where Yvette leant against the wall beside their selected hatch, "How about you?"

"I think I have everything," Yvette nodded, "Unless I left something under the desk. . . I better check again,"

She could hear Osborne let out an exasperated sigh as she dropped to her knees beside the teacher's desk to grasp a better look under. It was the third time she had stopped to ensure she had everything, she had already held the group up by unpacking and repacking her bag to make sure everything was in place, and had made both Ryland and Osborne do the same.

She knew the boys were getting frustrated, if the hushed whispering going on behind her back was anything to go by. But she couldn't help it, she just had to make sure that everything was where it should be. What if somebody got hurt, and they discovered they had left their bandages behind?

"Yvette?" Osborne said, crouching down beside the kneeling girl, "We have everything. It's time to go,"

"But what if-"

"We have everything," Osborne repeated, tilting his head downwards slightly and raising his eyebrows. His voice was stern, yet held a tenderness that one would use on a panicked child to calm them down. As annoying as the voice was, the reassurance was appreciated.

"Right," Yvette whispered, picking herself up and brushing off her legs, "Right. Let's do it. Let's go,"

"That's the spirit!" Osborne clapped her on the back as she stood, forcing the girl to turn around to hide her blush. Maybe if she had been as confident as she had been years ago, she would have flirted a little with the boy. She knew she wasn't an ugly girl, but she had stopped caring about her appearance a long time ago. Her hair was dry and her skin was peppered with pimples, but she knew she was still much prettier than most girls out there.

"I'll go first," Ryland said as he slung his own pack across his shoulders and grabbed the metal hatch, twisting the wheel and attempting to pull it open.

"Woah, woah, woah," Osborne said, pushing through the scattered desks and grabbing Ryland's wrist before he could pull it all the way, "No way. You hang back with Yvette, I'll go first,"

"I can handle things on my own, you know," Ryland growled, his face darkening as he straightened his back. It was comical really, Yvette enjoyed watching the two of them interact. Ryland was as innocent and adorable as a puppy, and looked like a kitten trying to intimidate a Lion as he glared up at Osborne.

"I'm sure you can," Osbourne said with a smile, "But, since I'm the only one with a weapon, I think I will be the one going first,"

He raised his eyebrows and sucked his lips into his mouth, creating an expectant look that Ryland gave into after a short moment of prolonged defiance. The boy stood aside with a mumbled 'fine', and allowed a smiling Osborne to take the lead.

"Buckle up kids," Osborne said, looking back at his companions who now stood side by side, "We're going on an adventure,"

 **Kelani Richards - District Ten**

If Kelani had been in a panic before, then this was an entire new level of absolute terror. There had been a moment of brief tranquillity as Kelani sprawled, unable to move on top of an unseen body while the creaking and groaning of shifting bookcases. And then came the screaming.

At first, it wasn't her own. The person below her, a boy if the deep tone was anything to go by, was bellowing and screeching incoherent obscenities in Kelani's close ear. The girls own screams soon mixed with those of the unidentified boy, and suddenly Kelani found herself on her feet and running in a blind panic further into the maze of books and shelves.

The boy was still screaming from somewhere behind, Kelani's took a sharp left and slipped through a space between one bookcase and another, dashing into another aisle in hopes of distancing herself from her attacker as light began to seep back into the library.

There was no telling where the light came from, it was like a gas, slowly flooding the room with no visible source. While still dark, Kelani was now able to at least make out shapes through a swirl of dark colours. With her levels of exhaustion rising and her once injured leg panging with pain, Kelani was only to able to weave through another few passages before her weaker leg suddenly gave way. Kelani flew a few inches forwards and slammed into the carpet chin first, the crimson floor burning the underside of her face in the process.

"Fuck this," Kelani groaned, propping herself up on her hands as an involuntary tear slithered down her cheek. She spent a few moments pawing at her new injury that was currently burning insistently, before she noticed the spot she had fallen in was far brighter than the rest of the library.

Raising her head, Kelani drew backwards into a sitting position at the sight of the enormous statue looming over her. Bathing in light filtered in from the skylight above, a marble depiction of a towering woman loomed over Kelani. She was over thirty feet tall, holding a shield three times taller than Kelani in one hand, and a golden angel that was closer to Kelani's height in the other. The woman's helmet was the most intriguing aspect of the statute, Kelani found herself marvelling at the three forms jutting from crown, an intimidating looking sphinx flanked by two proud griffons on either side.

Kelani had never truly understood her father's interest in artifacts of the past and depictions of artistic beauty, but this towering statue took her breath away. She had once heard of an enormous statue in passing during a history lesson that she had hardly payed attention to, Kelani wondered if this was the once renowned Statue of Liberty. The girl was transfixed, and limped towards the beauty with gawking eyes. It was as if she had forgotten the so recent intrusion on her prison as she laid her hand on the shield, marvelling at the patterns and carvings that felt so real beneath her skin.

It was almost incomprehensible to Kelani, how had this monster of a statue been created? Who was this woman, depicted as a warrior fiercer than any man? How long had it taken to make? It must have taken years to perfect the sphinx jutting from the helmet alone?

"Dad would know," Her whisper sounded foreign as it broke the trance she had locked herself into, "I should have asked him. I-I should have taken an interest,"

The one tear that had leaked upon her fall was now joined by another, and another, until her face was a cascade of crystal tears. Kelani slouched against the shield as sobs racked her tiny frame. She had hardly known the man who proclaimed himself as her father, the man who was hardly ever home and never shared his time away with the daughter who idolized him. The only real connection she had had with her father was his interest in art, an interest he had tried to share with Kelani on many occasion. She wished more than anything that she could go back and listen to what he had to say.

"I hardly knew him," Kelani sobbed, "And I never will,"

"I wouldn't say that," A male voice said. Kelani's head snapped up, blotchy eyes widening at the sight of the pale faced boy who was pressed up against the frame of the closest bookcase. One of his legs was a mess of bandages that had been soaked with blood, and his face wore an expression that suggested the wound beneath was still bothering him.

"So you made it out," Kelani managed to say, forcing a laugh that sounded faker than any other before it, "I'm impressed,"

"Not without a battle wound," The boy said, gesturing to his leg. He pulled himself further along the bookcase, and it was then that Kelani caught the glint of light flashing off the blade of a sword in his hand. The sword she had dropped.

Kelani recalled the pleading look he had shot her when he was cornered by the white haired girl with the sword. She also remembered the pitying frown she had given in response, and the look of despair that replaced his plea as she turned away. She hadn't thought much of it at the time, all she had known was that she needed to get out of there. She hadn't thought that mistake would come to bite her in the butt.

"Thats mine," Kelani said blatantly, sniffling slightly as she pointed at the sword.

"Well, I found it on the floor," The boy said, pausing to examine the weapon, "Finders keepers, right?"

"You think you can kill me with that thing holding you back?" She forced a surge of confidence, circling her finger in the direction of his bloody bandage. He didn't need to know that her own leg was causing her issues, "I just don't see that happening,"

"You were talking about your dad, right?" The boy said, limping further in her direction. Kelani felt her blood run cold, and swallowed loudly in response. The boy paused once again, this time glowering at Kelani with such hatred in his eyes that she wished she could melt into the shield that was pressed against her back, "You want to know who your father was? You want to know more about the man with the snake tattoo? Well, I'm going to tell you,"

He raised the sword again, this time pointing it at Kelani's chest with a message so clear that there was no need for the boy to be close enough to poke her with it.

"Your father, the enigma who you miss so dearly, was nothing but a filthy murderer," He spat the word father as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, and the subtle growl to his voice made him intimidating despite his injury, "Your father is the one who killed my sister,"

 **Brody Lewis - District Twelve**

"You need to treat this injury with more care," Ivy said gently as she fixed Brody's bandage into place. The boy in question clenched his teeth, letting out a hiss of pain as the pin holding the fabric together scraped against his sewed up wound, "Sorry,"

"It's fine," Brody breathed. He shouldn't really get angry with this girl who had possibly saved his life, but she has been nothing but a nuisance ever since he woke up. Ivy McKinnon was unnaturally positive, and it irked Brody to no end.

News flash, He thought to himself, the world isn't the pretty picture you think it is.

His eyes shifted to where Tracey was positioned in the far corner of the room, sitting with her legs crossed, fingers curled into circles above her knees, and eyes closed with a peaceful expression, "What's she doing?"

"Meditating," Ivy supplied as she carefully packed up her first aid kit. Her movements were fluid and precise, Brody was not sure he had ever seen a medical kit so neatly kept in his life. Everything Ivy did was like this, as if anything less than perfect would destroy her, "She's trying to calm her anger,"

"And it doesn't work if you two won't shut the fuck up," Tracey growled, cracking open an eye and glaring at Brody, who only blinked in response. He was not sure what to make of Tracey, she had so far been snappish and crude, and in truth she scared the younger boy.

"Keep at it," Ivy soothed, her voice soft and elegant, "You will get better with practice,"

Tracey mumbled a sharp yet unintelligible comment that Brody could not interpret as she closed her eye and resumed her attempted meditation. The boy sighed and adjusted his arm in Ivy's makeshift sling, wincing at the sharp stab of pain coursing through the limb.

His stomach rumbled, yet he gave no verbal indication that he was hungry. These girls had already done so much for him; he couldn't ask them to spare whatever portion of food they had left. He doubted there was much stuffed in the handbag dangling from Ivy's shoulder.

"Brody," Ivy began, shuffling across the room and lowering herself into a cross legged position on the floor. Long fingers laced together in her lap, posture so formal that Brody seldom saw it outside of job interviews on television, "I'm sorry about your friend,"

A breath caught in Brody's throat at the mention of Phelan. He had been repressing the memory of the boys sudden and brutal death. Not because he feared that the image would scar him. No, he was repressing it because of the way his heartbeat suddenly leapt at the memory of the boy standing there with a gaping hole in his chest. Because of the way the corners of his lips twitched upwards at the memory. Brody Lewis was trying to forget the circumstances of Phelan Krouse's death because he _enjoyed_ it.

Rolling his shoulders forwards, Brody quickly began to weave a mask that suggested that he hadn't enjoyed watching Phelan die, "We weren't friends. Not really. Forced together by circumstance, I guess,"

"I suppose that is the best way to describe all of the relationships formed in here," Ivy said, mouth forming into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, "They're not real. But they're nice to have. It's comforting knowing everybody else is just as terrified as you are,"

"Yeah," Brody croaked, pretending to wipe away at a trailing tear. It wasn't that he was not saddened by Phelan's death. He wasn't heartless. From the small moment the two had shared, Phelan came across as a decent kid. A kid who liked to knit. A kid whose life was taken far too soon, "Makes it easier. Not being alone,"

"You guys are really killing the mood," Tracy growled. Brody's eyes shifted to her moving form, "I'm done with this crap, Ivy. It doesn't work,"

"It will if you keep at it," Ivy said soothingly as Tracey rose and stretched her back, arms reaching towards the ceiling.

"Yeah well, I'm giving up now," Tracey huffed, pressing her shoulder blades up against the wall, "What's with the depressing crap? Thought you were all about positivity,"

"I am," Ivy said, as she too climbed to her feet, "I was merely telling Brody how wonderful our relationship is going to be,"

"Relationship?" Tracey raised an eyebrow at Brody, "Ain't that moving a bit fast?"

"What? Not that kind of relationship!" Brody hastily answered, thankful for the distraction that drew his mind away from Phelan Krouse, "She meant a friendship. I do already have a girlfriend of my own,"

"Oh, that must be hard," Ivy said, gliding across the floor and draping an arm across his shoulders, "But think of her as a motivation. Motivation to take down the competition and win!"

"Yeah, it's not that easy," Brody grumbled, scratching at the stubble on his chin, "She's in here with me,"

The revelation was like a whip crack that stunned Ivy into silence. Tracey's mouth fell open momentarily, only to be quickly closed as she looked over at Ivy, "Try putting a positive spin on that one,"

"She doesn't need too," Brody snapped, pulling away from Ivy and turning his back as her the pale appendage fell limply at her side, "I know what I'm going to do. I'm going to find her. Protect her. And when we make it to the end...she's going to be the one that makes it out alive,"

There were no answers to his bold plan. Brody did not look back at his newfound companions. He didn't want to see the expressions on their faces, whether they be supportive or pitying, "Now we should get moving. I think we all know what the gamemakers do to tributes who stay in one place for too long,"


End file.
